Healing the Doctor
by BlinkAndYou'reDead
Summary: Set Post-Reichenbach. John is broken. Everyone can see it. Even he knows how much he's struggling. Then Sherlock returns and everyone thinks it will go back to normal. But John really had been broken. It'll take everything Sherlock has to heal him. Rated for language and violence.
1. Routines and Close Calls

**A/N: So this is my first attempt at an actual fan fiction. I hope you like it. I do not own Sherlock, though I wish I did. **

* * *

The constant cacophony of cars outside the flat became muffled as John closed the door behind him. Like always, the scent of the space assaulted his senses and caused him to lean against the door for support. It was too familiar. Chemicals and the lingering scent of long dead tobacco hung in the air. The warmth of the open hallway and the distant sounds of Mrs. Hudson fixing her dinner. Dizziness dulled his sight as John closed his eyes and took a deep breath before limping over to the staircase, cane cracking as it came into contact with the wood floor. The trek up the stairs was long and heavy as he lugged his throbbing leg up the stairs and into the flat. Walking into this room was definitely worse than just entering the building. Towers of half-packed boxes, spilling their contents onto the ground, cluttered the edges of the room. For once, the kitchen table was free from experiments, but the lingering stains and scratches still marred the once shiny surface. An all too familiar heat stung behind his eyes as John took in the lonely violin propped up against the Union flag pillow, awaiting a master that would never return.

John almost laughed at the dent in the couch. It was still formed into the silhouette of _his_ body, even after almost three years of no one occupying the space. He limped over to the desk by the two windows and leaned against it, habitually stroking the familiar blue fabric lying limp on the desk that he refused to let be buried.

He took his seat in his armchair and pulled his laptop from the ground, placing it on his lap and typing in his password. Even after three years he still had the same password protecting it, even though there was no one here that would want his laptop anymore. Even considering, though, it was pointless anyway to have a password in the first place. It never stopped the person in question from using the doctor's computer as he wished.

Automatically, he opened his blog. The top entry was from the 16th of June. His heart sank as he realized it had been three years to the day now. How could he have forgotten?

John's head dropped into his hands as his heart settled somewhere near his toes. Three years. Some days it seemed longer; some days shorter. Days like today it seemed longer. Too long. Like a century had passed instead of 1,095 days.

He wondered if Mrs. Hudson would accompany him this year. She did the first year but last year she had refrained from going. John assumed the first year might have been out of pity. It also seemed like a perfectly logical explanation as to why he hadn't been kicked out yet. He knew that he had been down on the rent more than once but his landlady had turned a blind eye to it, and for that he was grateful. Although he hated being pitied, though that seemed to be the only thing he was lately. The fragile shell of a man that no one dared approach without a cautious demeanor and controlled tongue. Everyone noticed how hard it had been to speak to John lately. Any mention of the late detective would shut him off and he would refuse to talk for days afterwards.

Lestrade was really the only person with whom John could still hold a conversation with without the aforementioned DI being shunned. He still tried to maintain a friendship with John and the former soldier had let him. Despite being almost mad with grief, John could still see that solitude would do nothing to help heal him. Therefore he let the Detective Inspector coax him into the occasional pub call or takeaway dinner. Lestrade never mentioned John's former flat mate. Never even came close to it. He prided himself on being the one person that John could go to without being pummeled by questions that only sent him spiraling down ever further into his desolate pit of sorrow. Lestrade had carefully built the ladder that saved John from his self-destructive pit and helped him back out into his meager civilian life. He wasn't about to knock him back down.

John checked his phone. The customary message from Lestrade greeted him. He didn't feel like reading it, but he knew that it would be something along the lines of "How are you?" "Is everything okay?" "Do you want to go out for a pint later?" Something usual like that. Or maybe even a message concerning today's date. "Would you like me to come?"

Maybe even one like the one he sent last year on the anniversary. "Please don't. It's not worth it."

But Lestrade didn't know. He couldn't know what John had been going through. It most definitely _was _worth it. None of them understood the bond he had shared with his best friend. Life without him was more dull than before. John had been living in a world colored in shades of grey. There was nothing holding him here anymore. He'd given up contact with Harry after a bad falling out a couple of months after the… incident. She didn't understand why he was so depressed. They'd fought. Words were said, more harshly than intended, and John had left. John hadn't even looked at Mycroft since the funeral. He couldn't bear to see the guilt he knew would reside on the elder Holmes brother's face. Molly had called once or twice, but without the Consulting Detective to link them together, they had lost contact only a couple months in.

He had gotten so close last year. Then he had received the text from Lestrade and collapsed on the ground, now-familiar sobs wracking his body. Lestrade had grown concerned when John didn't respond and had visited the flat, ascending the stairs in a panic to discover a broken John huddled on the floor, gun flung to the side and tears pooling on the carpet. The older man had stayed with John that night and well into the next day until he was satisfied that John wasn't going to do anything rash again.

John wasn't about to try again this year. He knew that Lestrade would be watching him carefully. His therapist even promised to call him sporadically over the night. He also had no doubt that Mycroft would be watching him from the cameras John knew had been placed in the flat shortly after the funeral. The elder Holmes still kept distant contact with John, though he wasn't sure why. The doctor had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with Mycroft ever again.

* * *

_Mycroft leaned back in his chair and peered at one of the cameras placed haphazardly throughout his brother's old flat. John sat forlornly in his armchair, staring blankly out of a window as if deep in thought. He knew that the former soldier would be visiting Sherlock's grave again tonight, he was well aware of the date and that was why he was currently situated in front of the gathering of half a dozen black and white monitors trained on the army doctor's emaciated form._

_He was paying special attention today. Both Lestrade and Sherlock had told him to watch John carefully. They all remembered last year's events, Sherlock especially. He didn't think that his brother would ever stop thanking Lestrade for texting John when he did._

_His mobile buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket, scrutinizing the familiar number and then putting the device to his ear. Before he had a chance to speak, the deep baritone voice cut through the phone._

_"How is he?"_

_Mycroft sighed, "He is the same as ever. I don't believe there will be a repeat of last years… proceedings."_

_"I don't care if he looks fine now. John is… Not the same. He's unstable. You can't just 'believe' Mycroft. You have to be sure."_

_"Sherlock… I can't promise you anything. You know John better than I do-"_

_"Describe him to me." Sherlock interrupted._

_Mycroft started. "What?"_

_"You heard what I said." Sherlock snarled._

_"He's sitting in the armchair like always. Wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. He didn't shave this morning. It looks like his limp is acting up again, he leans more heavily on the cane than usual. Right now he's staring out of the window." Mycroft paused before adding, "He touched your scarf when he came in the room again."_

_The younger Holmes was silent as he listened to his brother speak. "He always does that." Sherlock said sadly, and if Mycroft wasn't mistaken, with a little fondness in his tone._

_"To be honest Sherlock, he doesn't look good. I'm surprised he's still breathing given how thin he is-"_

_"Don't joke about that." Sherlock growled, static from the phone clicking over his warning._

_Mycroft cursed his slip of tongue and waited for his brother to speak again, not trusting himself to talk given how on edge Sherlock was._

_Sherlock didn't speak for a long time and Mycroft had to check and make sure he hadn't hung up._

_"Mycroft…" Sherlock started after a while._

_The older man knew that tone well and immediately spoke. "Sherlock, we've discussed this. You know you can't."_

_"But I'm so close to wiping out Moriarty's men. It's been three years, Mycroft. I've made him suffer long enough." Sherlock couldn't keep the tone of self-loathing out of his voice and noted the plea that also edged his words. He was begging and he knew it._

_Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fore-finger and closed his eyes, momentarily breaking contact with the forlorn man on the small screen in front of him. "Sherlock… It's your decision, but I advise against it. It's not smart. You're letting your emotions control your mind."_

_"I don't give a damn about it being smart. Mycroft… it's time. I can't keep him waiting any longer. Not like this."_

_The two brothers were silent as Mycroft realized just how much Sherlock wanted this. John brought out a different side of his brother that Mycroft hadn't seen in three years. Deep inside Mycroft knew that it was nearing the time when Sherlock would reveal himself to be alive. And though a part of him knew the risk, the part of him that housed his emotional family ties couldn't bear to see his brother suffer any longer._

_"I trust you, Sherlock. It's probably wrong and it's still not the wisest decision, but I agree. It's time to bring back Sherlock Holmes."_

* * *

John rose unsteadily from his chair as another text made his phone chime. This time he glanced at it and saw that it was a text from Lestrade. First, he looked back at the text he had received earlier.

"_Is everything okay? Call me if you need anything."_

John sighed and scrolled down to the one he just received.

"Do you want me to come with you tonight? I'm free if you do."

He slid open his phone to reveal the keypad and shot back a quick message. _"I'm all right. I think I'll be okay alone tonight."_

Almost instantly Lestrade's reply text sent his phone vibrating again. _"Okay. I'll text you in a bit."_

The doctor quirked his lips in a half smile-half scowl. He knew the reason he was being checked upon so diligently, but he didn't mind that much. If it made Lestrade feel better to know that John was okay, it was fine with him

John shrugged back into his coat and started for the door. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed the scarf and shoved it into his pocket, continuing out of the room and down the stairs into the cold London air.

Even though it was the beginning of summer, it was still annoyingly cold. John huddled himself closer into his coat, noticing how it hung around him more now than it used to. He knew he was thinner but it didn't bother him. Not much did anymore.

He hailed a cab and scrambled in, rattling off the cemetery address by heart. The sun started to sink below the clouds as a soft drizzle began to seep from the sky, misting the windows. John sat back into the faded seats and fingered the scarf in his pocket, the familiar touch soothing him the way nothing else could.

As he exited the cab, Lestrade sent him another text. John shot back one of his own and made his way slowly into the cemetery. His limp seemed to increase in intensity as he made his way to the back of the lot, past the church and onto the gravel road. After a couple minutes of walking he turned onto the grass and stopped in front of the achingly familiar black marker stuck in the ground.

John felt tears prick his eyes as he stared down the bold name on the grave. Nausea rolled through him but he fought it off, kneeling in the soft dirt, ignoring the way the wet ground seeped into his jeans and chilled his legs. He closed his eyes and let a few tears slip past his lids. Hastily he wiped them away, berating himself once again. He promised himself that he wouldn't cry this time. He was done with sobbing. The hollow feeling that replaced the sadness wasn't much better, but at least his eyes weren't constantly red anymore.

He sat in the rain for about half an hour, then he stood and whispered a soft, "Until next year." Before starting to turn away.

He could never bring himself to say goodbye. No matter how many times Lestrade or his therapist told him to let go he just couldn't. A rebellious part of him always thought that there was a chance that Sherlock would come back to him. That stubbornness always caused him more pain than he let on, but he ignored it and didn't let it show.

As he turned, he caught sight of a pale face lurking in the trees. Immediately, his army trained defenses came up and he shifted his foot back, prepared to run if the situation called for it.

"Who's there?" He called out after a moment.

Maybe if it hadn't been raining or if his eyes weren't still blurry from unshed tears, he might have noticed the familiar silhouette. The flowing black coat, impossibly sharp face and inky black curls.

As the figure stepped forward, it became apparent to John that this was someone he recognized. But it wasn't possible. He told himself that over and over. It couldn't be. It just couldn't. Maybe he really was starting to go insane. He was imagining things. It just couldn't…

But then the man spoke. And the deep voice was all it took to send the doctor reeling in shock.

"John."

* * *

**A/N: This was meant to be a one-shot but now I'm thinking I'll go on. Please review if you wish, it'll help me decide how long I'll make it. Plus I like hearing opinions from you.**

**Thanks for reading. :)**

**-Elena**


	2. Unexpected Reunion

**A/N: I'm sorry about the late update, the charger cord for my laptop split and I only just got a new one. No internet for four days :( Thanks for being patient, though. :)**

**I also want to say how pleasantly shocked I was at the response to this story. Thanks to everyone who took the time to review, follow and favorite this story, it means a lot and helps me to write more quickly. I'll try and get the updates more evenly posted now. **

**-Elena**

* * *

John's mouth fell open as he stumbled away from the man standing in front of him. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be. Some kind of trick… He was finally going insane…

"John?" The familiar voice tried again.

The doctor felt dizzy, nauseous, and a small sense of relief, all at the same time. Maybe it _was_ him. He certainly looked the same. Deep black curls framing his pale, sharp face. Long coat flapping in the wind. Granted, he looked much thinner, which was proved by the renewed severity of his cheekbones sticking out of the hallow of his cheeks. It had to be him. But how?

"Sh-Sherlock?" John mumbled, harshly wiping the excess tears and droplets of rain from his cheeks.

A small smile touched the lips of the detective. It was a cautious quirk of his mouth. Sherlock knew he had to be careful with this. Any wrong word or movement could alarm the fragile doctor and turn him away.

Sherlock took a cautious step forward. Automatically, John stepped back. A flash of pain crossed the detective's features but he immediately smothered it. "John, please. Let me explain."

John's hands flashed up to his face and he dug the heels of them into his eyes. "Give me a second." He managed to choke out. His hands dropped from his face and clenched into fists at his side. He kept his eyes closed and leaned against the grave marker for support. This was absolutely the last thing he had been expecting to see when he awoke this morning, and it threw him. He felt like he was going to pass out, which probably wasn't the best thing he could do at the moment. John's head swirled with emotions and thoughts. Unwanted memories of the Fall relived in his mind. The burial. Three long, lonely years. And now this.

Finally he opened his eyes and met the slightly worried gaze of his apparently not dead best friend. "How…?"

Sherlock's gaze swooped around the graveyard and landed back on his reeling flat mate. "Maybe we should discuss this somewhere more… private."

A deep rage suddenly engulfed John's surprise and he took a step forward. "What the _hell_ Sherlock! Three years! _Three damn years _and now you want me to wait to hear your explanation on why you're suddenly not dead?"

"John please, just let me explain-"

He was cut off by John closing the distance between them and cocking his arm back, throwing a punch into Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock stumbled, clutching the affected area as John tackled him to the ground. "Three years, you bastard!"

John wasn't thinking clearly, he was blinded by rage and an angry relief that was fueling his decisions. He pinned Sherlock beneath him and shouted more abuse. Sherlock took it in stride, wincing only when John chose to take a more physical approach. He had expected this reaction from the more emotionally inclined doctor.

"Do you have any idea what I went through?" John shouted.

Sherlock sighed, trying to shift into a more comfortable position on the wet ground. "John, I'm-"

"And don't just say you're sorry, because Sherlock, that's really not going to cut it. You're going to have to do way better."

The fight seemed to have left the former soldier. He slid off of his knees and away from Sherlock, collapsing on the ground with his back against the headstone. A hollow look formed in his eyes as the lines on his face seemed to stretch into oblivion.

A sharp pang resonated somewhere in Sherlock's core. He found himself despising that look and whatever had caused it, although of course he knew that he was to blame. It had been hard enough for him to see John try to live through his absence. At least he had his mission to take his mind off of it. John had had nothing but an empty flat and semi-sympathetic friends. He had no idea what the other man could have gone through. What kind of personal hell he had helped to form. It cut deep inside him, though he let none of his emotions show on his face. He couldn't have his self-loathing spread to John. The other man was already going through too much.

"John…" Sherlock started again. The doctor looked so lost. He stared at the scars and calluses on his hands in silence, not meeting eyes with the taller man. Sherlock swallowed. He had known that it was going to be hard to get John to open up again. Maybe if he tried to plead… "Please, John? Just come back to the flat with me. I'll explain everything, I promise. Please." He tried to speak in a manner that didn't sound like a beg, but he knew he had failed when John looked up in shock.

"You're really here." It wasn't a question, Sherlock realized. It was as if John was trying to convince himself of something that his eyes couldn't fathom.

Without warning, John leaned over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin form. The detective stiffened and attempted to pull away, "John?"

"Shut up. Just for once in your life, Sherlock. Keep your mouth shut and give me a second to assure myself that you're real." John's voice was muffled against Sherlock's coat but Sherlock could hear him as if John were speaking right into his ear. After a moment he found himself leaning into the stockier man's embrace. It felt good to have human contact after so long.

Sherlock let John hold him for as long as the doctor thought necessary. He wasn't about to admit it to anyone, least of all himself, but he had missed John more than he thought he would. There were times, as there always would be, where John could get on his nerves, like when he didn't get the simplest details of a case for one, but Sherlock still enjoyed his company. The nights in the flat where it was just the two of them, off a case or on one, where Sherlock would stretch out on the couch and immerse himself in thought while John read across the room. No words were exchanged between the two, but after so much time on his own, Sherlock liked the feeling of another presence in the room. John kept him in control and helped him become more, well, human. He warned him when he was becoming too mechanical, and Sherlock like that about him. John was the stone in the rapids of Sherlock's mind, the constant that would always be there to steer him in the right direction.

However, the last three years had been different. Sherlock found himself to be more closed off from others. He was quicker to snap at and lash out at people. It hadn't even phased him when he had had to tear down Moriarty's men. He had retreated back into himself and whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was going to need time to heal as John did. The doctor would help him to return back to his behavior before the fall and Sherlock would help John cope. They would need each other. No one else could help them the way they could each other.

After a couple moments John sat back and quickly swiped a rough hand over his eyes, looking away from Sherlock. "Sorry 'bout that."

"It's fine." Sherlock said quickly.

"You wanted to go back to the flat?" John whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Yes." Sherlock stood and held out a hand for John to grab onto. The doctor staggered upwards and rolled his shoulders, rubbing his spilt and slightly bleeding knuckles. Sherlock's cheek throbbed and the corner of his mouth was bleeding slightly but he didn't care. He had been expecting it.

John swallowed and looked to his flat mate for instruction. It felt a little odd at first, as if he was just sliding back into a routine. However, it was anything but what it was like three years ago. It would never be like that again. There were too many scars to heal.

Sherlock seemed awkward as well. His steps stuttered for a second, as if he wasn't sure which way to turn, before heading to his left, down the path to the lot. John followed obediently and stayed close to his flat mate, not wanting to let the man out of his sight for more than a second if he could.

They reached the lot and Sherlock waited until a plain black car pulled up and the detective slipped in, John climbing in after him. The ride was silent and tense. John was still dizzy from the revelation and not entirely sure that he wasn't dreaming. He fidgeted on the seat and nervously clenched his left hand, the familiar mantra soothing. Open close, open close. Over and over until Sherlock looked over sharply and eyed the fist, raising an eyebrow. He didn't mention it and John didn't even look up, just continued to stare out the rain streaked window, ignoring the chilling drops of moisture that were trailing down his temple and the nape of his neck from his damp hair. His right hand slid into his pocket and he started fingering the warm material of the scarf before he realized what he was doing and looked up, startled.

Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as John pulled the scarf from his pocket, draping it across his lap. "I forgot I brought this." He murmured.

"Mmm?" The detective hummed, as if he hadn't been watching.

"I brought your scarf. Would you… Do you want it back?"

Sherlock inclined his head and tilted it slightly. "My scarf?"

"Yeah." John handed it over politely, albeit reluctantly.

"Thank you."

John nodded and turned to stare back out of the window of what was, presumably, one of Mycroft's cars. Mycroft…

"Did he know?"

"Who?" Sherlock asked innocently, though he had an inkling as to who John was referring to.

"Mycroft, did he know that you were alive?" The army doctor's jaw tensed as he watched Sherlock answer.

The detective shifted. "Yes. I had to have someone that knew, and he could watch over you, as well." He inwardly winced as the last part slipped out.

"You were watching me?" John's eyes narrowed and Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, of course. He was watching Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well because, well… I'll explain when we get to the flat John, please." He didn't mention the extra surveillance and cameras he had installed in the flat after he left. He had his reasons for wanting John to be more protected than the others.

John scowled and sank into his seat. "Why didn't you just tell me, Sherlock? I could have taken care of myself and helped you with whatever it was that you were doing. Why Mycroft?"

"He wasn't the one in danger, John. You were. I did it for your own safety. Mycroft is familiar with these kinds of situations."

"And I'm not? I don't think you've forgotten that I was in the army, Sherlock." John didn't sound as angry as he did exhausted. He felt drained, for more than one reason.

Sherlock frowned. "I haven't forgotten, John."

"Then why? Why couldn't you trust me?"

The detective didn't answer as the car pulled up to the flat. Sherlock nodded to the driver as he slid out of the vehicle. John got out on his side and followed his flat mate to the door. Sherlock dug his old key out of his pocket and slid it into the lock, turning it and stepping inside the room. Three years had been too long, he decided, as he walked inside and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the familiar scent of tobacco and chemicals. And John. Tea and jam and dust. Musky and sweet.

Sherlock ascended the staircase, nostalgia sweeping through him as his fingers trailed over the worn scratches on the banister and his foot hit the creaky fourteenth step. John limped his way up behind him and guilt replaced his wistfulness. He had caused John's limp to return. It was his fault. It was all his fault.

The door opened smoothly and he swooped into the flat, taking in the boxes surrounding the walls and the oddly empty kitchen table. He crossed the room and stroked one long, pale finger down the side of his violin, a sad smile on his face.

John entered and stood in the doorway, watching Sherlock familiarize himself with his old flat. The consulting detective turned and plopped down on the couch, running his hands along the fabric. "Sit down, John."

The doctor bristled and Sherlock cocked his head, not entirely sure what prompted his flat mate's reaction to his statement. John swallowed and took his seat in his armchair. It felt too formal. Nothing at all like it had been three years ago. Sherlock felt as unfamiliar and stoic as Mycroft did to John, and it made him uneasy.

The detective watched him for a while, eyes sweeping over John's tired form, drinking in his flat mate's appearance. Baggy, wrinkled and old clothes hung on his gaunt form. Dark circles stood out sharply against his unnaturally pale skin. He looked like a ghost, Sherlock realized with a sinking in his stomach. A shell.

"You didn't answer my question." John said tonelessly.

Sherlock thought back to their short conversation in the car. He winced and closed his eyes. "I do trust you, John."

"But not as much as your brother, apparently." John snapped, voice cold.

The taller man's eyes flashed open. "I have more trust invested in you than I do my brother, John. I have ever since our first day together."

"Then _why_? Why Sherlock? Why can't you trust me? Why am I not good enough to take on something with you? What was so different about this than any other case before? What changed?" John's voice wavered and his hand clenched automatically.

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I was worried about you, John. This wasn't just a case. It was… different."

"What? What made it so different?" John spat, exasperated.

"You, John. You changed it."

* * *

**A/N: And still more angst to come...**


	3. Explanations and Overdue Apologies

**A/N: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much I wish. **

* * *

John swallowed and spluttered, "I- I changed it? What do you mean?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and dug the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. It was as if he couldn't speak at all today. Nothing was coming out right. He didn't know what caused it. He had always been so sure of his words, they brought him power and showed off what he was capable of. Now, he was fumbling over them like a child, and there was no sure reason as to why.

"You were the reason I faked my death." Sherlock spat quickly, then immediately regretted it and winced.

John leaned back as if the words had hit him with a physical blow. He looked stricken. "I caused you to…" His voice was hoarse. What did Sherlock mean, he had caused it? Did he seriously drive him to…

Sherlock growled and jumped up. "Damn it! No, John, that's not what I meant. I don't-" He snarled and ruffled his hands through his hair, calming himself and getting back onto his train of thought. "Just, let me tell you the whole story."

He started to speak again when John cut him off. "Sherlock… Before you go on, can I apologize?"

"For what?" Sherlock blanched.

John swallowed and pressed his lips together before answering, "For what I said before you… fell. In the lab. I didn't mean any of it. I swear."

For a moment, Sherlock wasn't sure what John meant. He thought back to that day at Barts and the conversation he had had with John inside. _Oh._ He inclined his head as realization dawned on him. "John, it's okay." He stuttered. He hadn't been expecting John to apologize after everything he had done. After all that had occurred.

A sigh escaped the doctor and he nodded before gesturing for Sherlock to continue. The detective stared off into space for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before snapping his head back to John. "It was all because of the problem. The final problem. Our final problem. Moriarty and I. "

John nodded again, following for the moment. He had assumed it had something to do with Moriarty, since he had been directly involved in Sherlock's last case.

"I can't explain it all to you at the moment, only that when we were on the roof I spoke with Jim, and he told me to kill myself."

Sherlock paused as John tensed. He let the words sink in before continuing. "He tried to convince me by telling me he had snipers trained on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… and you. He would have shot you if I didn't jump."

"Oh." The little noise escaped John unconsciously as he sank further into his chair.

"I almost got out of it. I pointed out that if I still had Moriarty then I could a code out of him to call off the snipers, but then he took a gun and shot himself before I could move."

John blinked. He had heard nothing of this. Lestrade had never mentioned finding a body on the roof. Did Sherlock move it? He was going to ask but Sherlock kept on talking.

"Of course I had anticipated something along those lines. Nothing that drastic, his choice surprised even me, but I had thought out a plan as to what I would do if the situation called for me to kill myself. Or at least fake it. And so I did."

Quiet settled over the flat as ghosts of Sherlock's words danced in the air, echoing in John's head and brain. So Sherlock had faked his death. He faked it. To save John. _Him._ Well, him, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. But he never once dreamed of a day where this man would die for his safety. He thought he had escaped situations such as this when he left Afghanistan.

Sherlock watched John, waiting for his reaction. At least he hadn't started screaming and swearing. Or hitting. The detective's cheek throbbed once again, reminding him of John's first reaction.

"How?" John found himself muttering.

"Sorry?" Sherlock jumped a little, startled out of his own musings.

John sat up a little straighter in his chair. "How did you do it? Fake your death, I mean. I took your pulse."

Sherlock smiled a little at the last phrase and sat back on the chair arm. "Does it matter?" He asked wearily. Really, he just wanted to rest in his flat. He longed for John to just put the experience behind them so they could settle back into their old routine. Of course, he could never sit still for long, but it would have been nice to go back to the way things used to be. Having John remind him to eat in sleep, then ignoring him but putting up a nice pretense for his flat mate's benefit. But he knew it wouldn't be that easy.

The doctor frowned. "Not really, but it would be nice to know."

Sherlock sighed. "I'd really prefer not to have to explain it. It was a rather difficult procedure."

"So is that why you didn't tell me? Because you were protecting me? And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade?"

The detective nodded. "It was for your own good. I do trust you, John, but that wouldn't have been enough."

John closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, rolling his neck. "So what have you been doing then? For those three years." His voice cracked a little and he winced, hoping Sherlock hadn't noticed.

Of course he had, though. He was Sherlock Holmes. All he did was notice things.

The detective frowned at John's reaction. What had that been about? "I have been tracking down Moriarty's men. Trying to take them out so that it would be safe to come back to yo-here." Sherlock cursed his slip of tongue again. What was wrong with him?

John cocked an eyebrow but didn't say anything. "And this mission of yours. Has that involved killing anyone?"

"I've tried to get them all to Mycroft for imprisonment." Sherlock responded. He hadn't really answered John's question, something that the ex-army doctor noticed.

"I was in the army, y'know. It doesn't bother me if you've killed people, Sherlock." Although, if John was being honest with himself, it did bother him slightly. Imagining Sherlock murdering someone made him shiver. Not because of the obvious reason, but more because he just couldn't imagine Sherlock being that ruthless, even though he knew that the detective could if he wanted to. Sherlock was bound to have killed at least one person in his career, but John found that he had an almost motherly-like safety complex to the other man. He wanted to believe that Sherlock was a good man. That knowledge kept everything in balance. John was the heart and Sherlock was the brains. That's how it was, how it should have been.

"I know." Sherlock answered. He still didn't confirm if he had killed any of Moriarty's men or not. It was better if John didn't know the answer.

After a moment of silence, John spoke again. "So have you got them all? You would have only told me you were alive if you were done, right?"

Sherlock cursed John's shred of intelligence for picking out the one thing he really didn't want to mention. "No, not exactly."

"What?" John looked puzzled.

"I'm almost done, but…" He sighed. "I chose to return today."

"Why?"

Sherlock ground his teeth together. "Enough with the twenty questions, John. Can't I just return because I felt it would be a good day to present myself?"

John stood and crossed to Sherlock's chair, limp forgotten in his anger, leaned over the detective, malice plain on his face. "No you _can't _just show up. That's not good enough Sherlock. You've been gone three years. You can't just come back with no reason to."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not how friendships work!" John exploded.

The two stared at each other for a moment before John turned and started for the door, grabbing his jacket and cane.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock called, his face falling fractionally. This wasn't how he wanted this to go at all.

"To Lestrade's. I need time to think this over. Make yourself at home." The last sentence was tacked on as an attempt at politeness, after all, it was Sherlock's flat too, but its effect was lost because of the obvious fury dripping from the words.

"John-"

The doctor paused, his back stiff, but didn't turn. "Just leave it, Sherlock."

"John please, just listen to me."

This time, John did turn. "Sherlock, really! I'm not angry, I just need some space, okay?"

Sherlock could see through the sentence easily. John was simmering inside, close to boiling over, and he chose his words carefully. "Okay, John. Don't tell Lestrade."

John laughed humorlessly. "Of course not. I just hope his wife isn't around."

"She's not." Sherlock said automatically.

John smiled and almost chuckled, the familiar instant retort from Sherlock on something that should have been personally private reminded him of the old times and amused him. However, all he did was smile. It was all he could muster up in front of the man that was so infuriating him at the moment.

Without another word, he turned, shrugging on his jacket and closing the door behind him.

Sherlock frowned and sank onto the familiar couch. It hadn't been how he had expected the night to play out, but it could have been worse.

* * *

John rapped his knuckles against the wood door of Lestrade's house and waited, shifting on the front porch, shivering in the cold, and trying to hold back his thoughts until the older man opened the door. After a couple of seconds, John could hear footsteps approaching the door from the back of the house and the door was yanked open, spilling yellow light onto the porch.

"John!" The DI called in surprise, quickly ushering in the doctor. "Hey, mate. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Greg. And yourself?"

Lestrade sighed and smiled. "Same as always. Swamped with work but trying to ignore it for the moment. Solving cases hasn't been the same since-" He cut off with a grimace, shooting a sideways look at John to gauge his reaction.

Maybe John should have looked more stricken, for Greg cocked an eyebrow and looked at the doctor curiously. "Everything okay?"

"Not really. Can I stay here tonight?"

"Of course." Lestrade answered automatically. "The guest room is still open for you."

"Thanks, Greg." John said with a sigh, relieved.

The DI headed back to the kitchen, "You want a drink?"

"No thanks, I think I'm going to turn in."

Lestrade's head popped back in the doorway, now he looked really suspicious. "You sure you're okay, John? Anything you want to talk about?"

"Always, Greg, but nothing I'm willing to share."

"John-"

"Night, Greg!" John called, walking into the guest room and collapsing on the bed, kicking off his shoes and curling up on the comforter in his clothes.

He knew he hadn't been very cautious with the other man, but as of now he didn't care. He'd deal with the odd looks and questions in the morning. Right now his mind was flooded with Sherlock. Over and over he went through their conversation, from the moment he'd laid eyes on the detective in the cemetery, to the look on his face when John had left the flat. Now that he thought about it, he probably shouldn't have left Sherlock alone in the flat. Right after he had come back from the dead, probably expecting it to be just as he left it, and having John storm off in a rage.

It had been too much, though. Too much information along with floods of memories and emotions he had kept suppressed until now. Of course it had been great to find out his best friend was alive, but right now he just felt more confused and saddened than ever. He understood a little better why Sherlock couldn't tell him that he was alive, but he still felt a bit betrayed by the detective.

Rolling on his side, John buried his head in his hands and let out a shaky breath. It was too much. Now he was glad he had left the flat when he did. If he had stayed any longer he was sure he would have done something he regretted.

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry about the late update, school is starting up again and I've been busy with shopping and finishing my summer homework (plus I'm just lazy). Sorry if that chapter was terrible, I promise next one will be better :) **

**Am I still in character? I felt like I slipped a little OOC in this chapter, but I may just be tired :P**

**Thanks again to all the people that followed, reviewed, and favorited this story. It makes me so happy, you don't even know. They are always welcome and appreciated. **

**-Elena**


	4. The Dark Side of the Moon

Throughout the night and well into the next morning, Sherlock tried to pluck up the courage to call John and apologize. He didn't want to beg, but if it meant that John would come back to the flat and forgive him, then he didn't mind.

Sherlock paced across the room multiple times, picking up his violin and playing a long, screeching note before setting it back down again. It would be an understatement to say that he was frustrated with himself. He had let John just walk away, without even trying to defend himself or keep him at the flat. A part of him knew that being away from the flat for the night might be good for John, but he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. John should be here right now. Fixing tea in the kitchen or tapping away on his blog like always.

Frowning, he collapsed on the couch. Maybe he should go over to Lestrade's. He was going to have to reveal himself sometime soon anyway. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Sherlock grimaced at the thought. Maybe not.

He should have known that John would have reacted the way he did. There was no reason for him to get angry at John either, and yet he did, and he wasn't exactly sure why. John had plenty enough reason to be furious with Sherlock, however he really didn't show his anger until Sherlock had.

Sherlock plucked at a loose string on the couch as he thought. Did John hate him? It didn't seem like he had, and John wasn't the type to hide his emotions, but maybe a part of him did hate Sherlock, a part that the doctor himself wasn't even aware of.

Dawn had started to rise, sending a dim yellow light through the flat's curtains. The light cascaded over the floor, growing closer to the door opposite the windows with every passing hour. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the door, not moving, watching the light's slow progress, and waiting for John to walk back through the door, irritated, but home. However, as it grew closer to noon and the light retreated from the door as the sun rose to its full height, Sherlock began to grow worried. After a moment's thought, he pulled out his phone and shot a text to John.

_John? I'm sorry. -SH_

Sherlock waited. He remained in the same position on the couch for another hour before texting again.

_John, please come back. -SH_

The detective grew more worried as another hour passed. Was John really that angry? Or was he not answering because he couldn't?

_John? Are you alright? -SH_

A couple of minutes later, Sherlock's phone buzzed and his heart leapt in relief.

_I'm fine, Sherlock._

Sighing, his fingers tapped over the keys as he responded.

_Are you coming back? -SH_

_John? -SH_

* * *

John tossed in between the sheets as the familiarly cold fingers of a nightmare ensnared him in their grasp once again. Maybe it was because of the anniversary. Probably because of Sherlock's reappearance. Most likely it was caused by both of them. John didn't know, and frankly wasn't worried about the origin of the dream as he experienced it once again. It wasn't like it was a new dream. Actually, it was one of the more common ones, but it was by far one of the worst.

Sherlock stood on the edge of Bart's, one hand extended to John's as he spoke on the phone. However, his subconscious seemed to like torturing him more than the actual memory already did. Instead of Sherlock's voice cracking with pain, it was thick with uncontrolled fury.

"How could you do this to me, John? How could you sell me out?"

John gaped. "Sherlock, what? What are you talking about?"

"Everyone thinks I'm a fraud, John. All because of you. It is all your fault. Not to mention that other little bit of information you so kindly forgot to mention." Sherlock spat.

"What? Sherlock, no. You've got it all wrong-"

"Moriarty thought he'd be kind and tell me what you and him have been up to for the last couple of months. Going behind my back is one thing, John. But actually working with him knowingly? That's harsh." Sherlock laughed, his voice mad with pain and anger.

"Sherlock, please. He told me he would kill you if I didn't. Sherlock… I'm sorry. I tried-"

Sherlock laughed. "Just don't, John. I know exactly what you two did. He told me everything."

"And you believe him?" John whispered.

"I don't have any reason not to. When has he ever lied to me? Sure, deception and tricks, but he's never lied."

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous. I'm your best friend, I would never-" John pleaded.

"Don't lie to me, John. Don't you dare."

"Sherlock-"

"I hope you enjoyed it, John." Sherlock said, throwing his phone behind him. Without another moment of hesitation, he threw himself over the edge of the building, hitting the pavement with a sickening crack.

John woke with a start and cried out. Light was shining strongly through the blinds, hitting the bed with slanting rays of gold, indicating it was far from dawn. Sweat caused John's shirt to stick to his back as he looked around the room in confusion, making sure that he had just been dreaming. John choked back on a sob and brought his knees up to his chest, placing his head between his legs as he fought for breath. He had no idea what brought on that dream, he never did, much less the contents. It was completely ridiculous, yet it never ceased to cause him unbearable pain. The fact that Sherlock had died angry at him was a concept that he couldn't bear. Maybe his mind knew that and formed a nightmare just for him. But him being involved with Moriarty? It was ludicrous, and he would have laughed if his body wasn't being wracked with dry sobs.

He felt like a child, plagued with nightmares he was unable to stop, curled up on his bed in fright. A couple moments later, he was still crying when Lestrade knocked on the door. "John? You up? I was going to fix some breakfast, do you want any?"

The door opened and Lestrade stepped in, his face falling as he took in the scene. "Oh… John-"

Lestrade hurried over and sat down on the bed next to his friend, tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. "John… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The DI felt horrible. There was nothing he could do to help his grieving friend except to help him ride out the aftereffects of what seemed to be another nightmare and try to put him back together until another dream tore him apart.

He was used to this by now, and rubbed John's back until the doctor calmed down enough to sit up and wipe his eyes. John met gazes with Lestrade and chuckled slightly. "God. I'm sorry you had to see that."

"It's alright, mate. Nothing I haven't seen before." Greg smiled and John returned it with a watery one of his own.

After a moment of John sniffling and trying to calm himself, Lestrade stood up. "Do you want some breakfast?"

John glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was just after noon. "It's a little late for breakfast, don't you think?"

"You just woke up. That means breakfast."

John laughed and nodded.

"I've got coffee and bread. I bet I can scrounge up some jam, too."

"That'd be fantastic, thanks Greg." John turned as the door closed and walked into the bathroom. He washed his face until his cheeks were less blotchy and the redness in his eyes had gone down slightly. He straightened his clothes and pulled his jacket up on his shoulders before grabbing his cane and limping into the kitchen.

Lestrade was leaning against the counter when John walked in, sipping a steaming mug of coffee and fingering the piece of toast in his hand. He nodded to John and gave him a small smile.

John smiled back and was about to speak when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced down, his face pale.

_John? I'm sorry. -SH_

"John? Is everything alright?" John looked up to see Lestrade watching him in concern.

The doctor nodded. "Yeah, it's fine." John slipped his phone into his pocket without responding.

The two finished their breakfast and Greg asked if John wanted to accompany him to work. John, thinking of Sherlock back at the flat, knew he should probably decline, but he was still shaken from the nightmare and wasn't sure if he could handle seeing the detective at the moment. "Sure." John answered.

They had just entered Lestrade's office when John's phone buzzed again.

_John, please come back. -SH_

John swallowed, feeling his heart drop. He felt horrible but he still didn't want to go back to the flat. Part of him was still angry at Sherlock, though he couldn't exactly remember why. It was a stupid reason, and he felt childish about it, but Sherlock had made him wait three years, at least John could keep him waiting for a couple of hours.

Another hour passed as John sat around in Lestrade's office, watching him work and feeling a certain sense of nostalgia as it reminded him of those days when he would attempt to understand what Sherlock was working on. Watching Greg was completely different. John could follow easily and sometimes figured out things even before Greg. It seemed like maybe John was learning.

His phone vibrated and John jumped. Greg looked over, confusion and worry creasing his brows. "Who keeps texting you?"

"Um, my therapist." John muttered, lying quickly. Lestrade inclined his head and then looked away in embarrassment.

John pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the text.

_John? Are you alright? -SH_

This time, John could sense the worry within Sherlock's message. Against his better judgment he sent back a quick text, if anything, to placate Sherlock before John returned home.

_I'm fine, Sherlock._

Almost instantly, another text was sent his way.

_Are you coming back? -SH_

John didn't answer. He stared at his phone blankly. Sure, he wanted to come back, but he wasn't sure he would be able to face Sherlock at the moment.

An image of the fall lashed through his mind again, making him wince and drawing a gasp out of his throat. Greg looked up in concern but John didn't pay him any mind.

_Goodbye, John._

Memories flew through his mind, shaking his body with every impact on his subconscious. He wasn't aware that he was crying until Lestrade stood and walked over, kneeling in front of John. "John. John, look at me."

A tear leaked down his face as Sherlock falling through the sky replayed over and over in his mind. He couldn't focus on Lestrade, he was too lost in his thoughts. Greg shook his hand in front of John's face. John blinked and his eyes seemed to follow the hand for a moment before he slumped back in his chair, gasping, a hand flying up to his temple. His eyes slammed shut and he whimpered as he tried to shake the memory from his mind. Lestrade, abandoning all pretense, took John by the shoulders and shook him. The doctor gasped and his eyes snapped open.

"John? John, can you hear me?" Lestrade's eyes were wide with worry as he gazed at his friend.

"Greg?" John muttered.

Lestrade nodded encouragingly. "Are you alright? What happened?"

John's phone buzzed in his pocket in answer and Lestrade looked down. "John…?"

"I'm fine, Greg. Really."

Lestrade looked apprehensive as he watched John straighten himself in his chair and pick his phone out of his pocket, reading another text. John's face paled and fell, lip trembling slightly as he slid his phone into his pocket and clenched his jaw.

"Greg… Can you come back to the flat with me?"

Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed at the sudden change in topic. "What?"

"There's something I need to show you."

* * *

Sherlock paced throughout the flat. John still hadn't responded and he was back to worrying again. What if he never came back?

He was about to text John again when he heard the rattling of keys in the door. Sherlock spun, his heart leaping in relief as John limped through the door.

"John!" The detective lurched towards his friend with a grand smile on his face, fighting the urge to embrace him, and trying to calm his racing heart.

"John, are you alright? Where have you…"

Sherlock paused as John stepped inside to reveal the gaping face of another familiar person standing behind his flat mate.

Lestrade looked between Sherlock and John before spluttering, "What the bloody hell is going on?!"

* * *

**A/N: So there's some angst for you (and a small cliff hanger), I hope it was acceptable.**

**Thanks to everyone who is following, favoriting, and reviewing this story, the response always puts a smile on my face. :)**

**I have a question: How far do you want me to take the Johnlock elements? I have some ideas, but do you want it to be more of a friendship, or a relationship? **

**Thanks again! **

**-Elena**


	5. Picking up the Pieces

**I realized I haven't been doing this the past couple chapters: I do not own the rights to Sherlock, at least for now.**

* * *

"When you go through tragedy, you can either let that destroy you and you become bitter and never let it go, or you can let it make you stronger and let it make you grow." -Amy Lee

* * *

Lestrade's mouth popped open like a fish out of water, prompting John to take his friend by the arm and sit him in a chair. For a moment, Greg didn't move. Sherlock studied him perspicaciously as always while John just fidgeted in his own chair. The two of them waited for a moment before Lestrade sprang up unceremoniously, almost knocking John's laptop off the desk, and strode over to Sherlock. Automatically, Sherlock tensed, obviously expecting the same reaction John had shown, but instead Greg reached out and touched Sherlock's shoulder, as if assuring himself the detective was real. Then the fist came.

Sherlock winced and his breath hitched in as another throbbing mark joined his face next to John's. "You absolute prat! What the _hell _did you think you were doing?!"

"Lestrade…" Sherlock and John spoke at the same time. John's voice held a more pleading note while Sherlock's was breathed out in a sigh.

"No- hold on. Don't say anything. Just let me…" Greg groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He muttered something unintelligible to himself before turning and collapsing back in his chair.

"You're not dead." He uttered tonelessly.

John shot Sherlock a look before the detective could say anything. _Don't be a smart-arse, Sherlock._

Sherlock rose his eyebrows as if to say, _Who, me? Don't be absurd._

"Obviously." The detective finally intoned.

John groaned and tried to refrain from rolling his eyes.

"How?" Lestrade choked.

"I'd really rather not try to explain." Sherlock stated. John missed the look Sherlock shot him as the doctor turned to straighten his laptop, but Greg caught it. He locked eyes with Sherlock and they both seemed to come to an understanding. No talk of the Fall around John.

"But, but I _saw _you. You were stone cold on a slab…" Greg muttered.

"Not really." Sherlock clarified.

John winced at Lestrade's choice of words and stood, leaving the other men to their conversation as he busied himself making tea.

"A cup for me too, John!" Sherlock called and John barely repressed a smile. He didn't answer the detective, but he knew that Sherlock would assume John had immediately started to fix a second cup. What he didn't know was that John had already habitually gotten out Sherlock's cup. Three years of making two cups of tea on impulse had finally proved to be a worthwhile behavior.

The doctor returned moments later with two teacups held in each hand to find the two men conversing quietly only to stop when they found that John had returned. John wasn't stupid enough to believe that they hadn't been talking about him.

He raised an eyebrow while he handed Sherlock his cup but the other man didn't answer his unasked question. Lestrade looked back and forth between the two, obviously trying to asses John's reaction. It had become a routine for him over the years to try and figure out what John was feeling just by his expression alone, since it was unlikely for the doctor to just come out and tell Lestrade if he was suffering. As Sherlock turned back to speak with Lestrade, the DI caught the look of grief cross the doctor's face and knew that John was far from better even though Sherlock had returned. His thoughts strayed to this morning when he had walked into the guest room to see John curled in on himself in obvious agony. It pained him to think of one of his closest friends stuck in such a rut of sorrow. Greg wondered if John would ever get better and if Sherlock coming back had helped him at all. He resolved to get Sherlock alone and explain to him that he needed to be careful the first few months at least.

"Lestrade?" John's voice brought Greg back into the present to find the two flat mates looking at him in concern. "You okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine. 'Course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well I believe we've just given you a fairly nice shock. You seem to be taking it quite well, though. Which is good news, although apparently I'm going to have a colorful face for the next week or so."

The other two men winced and chuckled. "Sorry about that, mate. It was only natural."

"It seems so, yes." Sherlock grimaced and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

The three talked well into the evening until John looked down at his watch and swore. Lestrade and Sherlock looked over at him curiously as he shrugged on his jacket. "I promised Sarah I'd do the late shift tonight. I'll be back around midnight."

Lestrade creased his brow. "Are you sure, John? I'm sure if you tell her something's come up…"

"No, no, it's fine. I need a little air as it is, anyway." John muttered, sliding out of the door with a faint goodbye to the two of them.

The door slammed shut downstairs as the two looked at each other awkwardly. After a moment, Lestrade cleared his throat and stood. "Well I should be going, um, it was nice to see that you are alive…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I should think so."

The DI started for the door but before he reached it he turned, remembering his earlier thoughts. "Sherlock…"

The detective shook his head, holding out his palm. "I know what you're going to say, Lestrade, and it doesn't need saying."

"But does it? Do you really know, Sherlock?"

"Know what?"

"I assume Mycroft is aware you're alive, yeah?" At Sherlock's nod, Lestrade continued. "I'd bet anything you had him watching John while you were gone. But did he really tell you everything that happened?"

"Like what?" Sherlock looked confused and a bit apprehensive.

"The extent of his nightmares? The way he wouldn't talk to anyone for weeks after the Fall? Did he really tell you how much John has been suffering, Sherlock?"

"Well he-"

"Sherlock." Lestrade cut him off. "All I'm saying is that you need to be careful. You need to cut the no-emotions 'I'll say anything to anyone and damn the consequences' bullshit and really watch what you do around John. He may look okay, but he's really not, and you need to push past your ego and realize that this won't go away now just because you've returned. You left scars, Sherlock, and you need to figure out exactly how you're going to fix them or we're going to have a serious problem on our hands and a doctor we can't heal."

He didn't know exactly when his voice had taken on a tone of anger, or how furious he had actually been, until the speech had burst out of him. It also shocked him to see that he seemed to have actually thrown Sherlock. The detective had a look on his face that Lestrade couldn't place, but he could've sworn it was something along the lines of compassion, although that couldn't be right. As long as Lestrade had known Sherlock, the detective had never shown any empathy for anyone.

"I'll keep that in mind, Lestrade." Sherlock finally murmured.

"Good." Greg stated clearly as the detective turned back to the sofa. "And Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock answered from in front of the coffee table, eyes fixed on his violin only a couple steps away.

"Don't screw this up."

Sherlock turned to see the tail of Lestrade's coat whip through the door before it slammed shut behind him. For a long time, Sherlock stared at the worn spot on the wood of the door, Lestrade's words replaying over in his head.

Picking up his violin off the chair, his long, slender fingers plucked over the strings, sliding back into the familiar position. He started to play a low, melancholy tune as he thought.

Nightmares? Mycroft had said those stopped ages ago. But, according to Lestrade, apparently they hadn't. Thinking back to John's face when he had returned earlier, Sherlock saw in his mind's eye the clear signs of little to no sleep apparent on his friend's face. So had he had another nightmare just last night? Had his return caused it? Sherlock shuddered. Of course it had.

_You look sad when you think he can't see you._

Molly's voice echoed in the back of Sherlock's mind. That may have been true three years ago, but now Sherlock realized that the roles had switched. He knew that John being how he was would try and hide what he was feeling. Sherlock would need to be more observant now to his friend's actions than ever.

It pained Sherlock to think that something he had done to save his friend could have caused him so much grief. So much to the point where he had almost taken his own life. He had never paused to consider that John cared for him so much that his 'death' would have an adverse effect on his life.

Nightmares, tears, death.

"Am I to blame?" Sherlock found himself muttering.

"Sherlock?"

The detective looked up to see John staring at him from the doorway to the kitchen. He held a steaming cup of tea in one hand and his laptop in the other. John looked immensely tired and still hadn't changed out of his rumple clothes from the day before. They hung on him in a way that they hadn't three years ago, Sherlock noted with a guilty grimace.

"Oh, John. When did you get home?"

"About five minutes ago, you okay?" John walked over to the couch. "Budge up." He said, nudging Sherlock's feet with his knee.

Sherlock swung around so he was sitting up and John joined him on the other end of the couch, setting his tea on the coffee table and his laptop in his lap.

"Of course I'm fine." After a moments pause he added, "How was the clinic?"

John raised an eyebrow at him and turned from his computer which had just chimed out its powering on jingle. "The same as always, why?"

Sherlock shrugged. John pursed his lips but turned back to his computer and typed out the web address for his email account.

"John-" Sherlock blurted out, but John interrupted him with a sigh.

John closed out of his web browser and shut his laptop, turning to face Sherlock. "Alright, Sherlock, what's this about? You've never cared about my work before and you've been acting jumpy ever since I got home."

Sherlock studied him for a moment before saying, "I'm sorry."

The doctor's face softened and Sherlock hated himself. He didn't want John to worry about _him_, he wanted to make sure John was alright. "Sherlock, you don't need to keep apologizing."

"No, John, you don't understand. I want to make things right."

"You don't have to, Sherlock. I'm okay and you're back, everything's fine."

"No it's not!" Sherlock burst out. He was frustrated and didn't know how to phrase his words correctly. "What I did… I know it hurt you, and I'm sorry. I just need to know how to make it up to you."

John winced. "Sherlock-" He whispered, but he choked up.

Seeing his expression, the anger drained out of Sherlock and his shoulders sagged. After a moment, the detective reached out and put a tentative hand on his friend's shoulder. John's eyes opened in surprise and Sherlock caught a glimpse of moisture filming over the doctor's eyes. "Right now, I don't know what to do, but I promise you I will make it up to you, John."

John was touched by Sherlock's rare show of sentiment. He closed his eyes again and tried to keep the tears at bay. Sherlock was here, he was alive, he was sitting on the couch right next to John. He swallowed and focused on the warm spot where Sherlock's hand still rested on his shoulder.

After a moment, John opened his eyes to see Sherlock studying him carefully. "I should go to bed." John said, his voice husky with unshed tears.

"You look tired."

John chuckled at the simple deduction and nodded, placing his laptop on the table and stretching. Sherlock's hand slid off of John's shoulder and hung at his side as he watched John walk from the room. A small smile etched slowly onto his face. John was obviously still suffering, but it seemed like they had made a little progress tonight, and that made all the difference in the world.

* * *

The next morning John woke to find Sherlock lightly dozing on the couch, exactly where he had left him the night before. For a moment, he was startled, not expecting someone else to be in the flat, but then he relaxed and smiled. Sherlock was curled up like a cat, half swallowed by his coat, and one leg dangled off the edge of the couch. John enjoyed the rare moment of being up before the detective, that usually only happened when there wasn't a case on, and started to make breakfast.

Only minutes later Sherlock woke to the smell of toast and tea wafting from the kitchen. He smiled and his eyes snapped open, already bright and awake with no signs of his recent sleep. Yawning, he sat up and stretched, running a hand through his mused curls. "John?" He called.

"In here!" John responded. "I made toast, you want some?"

"Why not?" Sherlock answered. He stood and made his way into the kitchen. The table was clear for once, something that greatly unnerved Sherlock, he'd have to fix that soon.

The two ate in companionable silence, enjoying their toast while Sherlock scanned the newspaper and John watched him. After a moment Sherlock's phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket while sucking jam off of one finger and held it to his ear.

"Sherlock Holmes." He answered.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice rang through the small speaker. "I know this is probably horrible timing but I have a case."

The detective's face lit up and John immediately knew who it was. "No it's fantastic, I'll be there shortly."

He hung up and turned to John. The doctor had an odd smile on his face. "A case?"

Sherlock grinned as the two started for the door. "Of course."

* * *

**A/N: Alright, so we're starting to show an inkling of a plot ^-^**

**Sorry I haven't updated in a while, school is hell on side-projects. So if I don't update for another week, just know that I'm probably unwilling writing an essay or doing math D:**

**Thanks again for all the favorites and follows, I can't tell you how much they mean to me. All the reviews are fantastic as well, I'm taking in everything you said and am going to try and fit it in somewhere. Any other suggestions are awesome :)**

**I hope this chapter met standards, I'd love some feedback.**

**Thanks as always,**

**Elena. **


	6. A Case Most Foul

**I do not have the pleasure of owning Sherlock Holmes.**

* * *

The steps groaned with ancient complaints as the two flat mates ran down the stairs. Sherlock practically skipped out of the door while John followed at a close pace, limp momentarily forgotten in the familiar rush of a case. As he joined Sherlock out on the sidewalk, he found the detective hunched against the fence by the door, head ducked down into his collar, scanning the road for a cab.

"Call one, would you John?" The muffled voice rose from behind the blue material wrapped around the taller man's neck.

For a moment, John was confused. Then he realized that Sherlock was trying to stay out of the public's eye for just a little while longer if he could. Nodding, he stepped up to the street and held out his hand, shouting for a cab. Seconds later, the car pulled up to the curb and John opened the door for Sherlock before following in himself.

Sherlock was almost bouncing in his seat in anticipation and John watched him with an amused eye. With the way he was acting now along with the scene of his sleeping form still stuck in John's mind, the doctor could almost see how Sherlock would have been as a child. He had to admit, seeing Sherlock asleep definitely humanized the detective a little for John. He had looked much younger lying on the couch, more vulnerable and less like the indifferent man he claimed to be.

John was again glad that Sherlock had fallen asleep on the couch, for if he had been in his room, which was almost directly below John's, he most certainly would have heard some sign of John's most recent nightmare. Admittedly, it had been a rather minor one, but he had still woken in a cold sweat, unable to return to the blessed darkness of a dreamless unconsciousness. That was why, it would seem, that he had been awake before Sherlock that morning.

Of course, even with Sherlock having slept through the whole night, one look at the ragged doctor this morning had spoken volumes to Sherlock in a matter of seconds. He could always see right through John and John knew it, though he wasn't about to admit it.

For the first part of the ride, John was silent, contemplating the recent events of the past two days and every once in a while shooting Sherlock a look out of the corner of his eye. About half way to Scotland Yard, John turned in his seat and addressed the detective.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm, yes John?" Sherlock shot back lazily.

John shifted, the seat belt digging into his shoulder, "What are you going to tell the force when they see you?"

Sherlock pondered that for a moment before answering, "I'll answer their questions, but I'm going to be focusing on the case, obviously."

"Don't you think it'll be a little… I dunno, strange, when you suddenly turn up not dead?"

"Strange? Not at all. More like astounding." The detective mused with a bland tone.

"You're so full of it, Sherlock."

Sherlock chuckled and turned his gaze to look at John fully. "Oh really?"

John rolled his eyes, stifling a smile. "Yes, really. But you wouldn't be any other way, would you?"

"Not at all, John."

* * *

The cab pulled up outside New Scotland Yard and while Sherlock paid the cabbie, John couldn't help feeling nervous. Other than for the reason of Sherlock's reveal, there was also the fact that John hadn't seen the force in almost three years. Lestrade wasn't the type for gossip, but John was sure rumors had gotten around concerning his behavior after the Fall. A couple members of the force who had made casual acquaintance with John and partly Sherlock had come to the funeral, but that was the last time John had had any contact with them.

John swallowed and ascended the steps with Sherlock at his side. As usual, the tall man led the duo into the building. Sherlock pushed open the doors and John felt the slightly warmer air of the building rush out to meet them as the pressure shifted. Lestrade had promised to meet them in the lobby and there he was, standing in the middle of the linoleum floor. Authority rippled off him in waves despite the slightly awkward way he was standing. As the two entered the room some of the tension seemed to leave his body as he strode forward and clasped hands with the two of them.

"John, Sherlock, thanks so much for coming, I-"

Sherlock snorted, "You know I can't resist a case, Lestrade, as long as it's as entertaining as you claim it to be. It'll be nice to get back into the swing of things." He smiled and turned to leave. "And you might want to tell your secretary it's not polite to stare."

He brushed past them and into the deeper recesses of the Yard while John and Lestrade both glanced at the secretary who's mouth was open in shock as she stared intently at the door Sherlock disappeared through.

When she found their gazes on her, a deep blush settled in her cheeks and she spluttered, "W-was that, was that-"

Lestrade chuckled and nodded, following Sherlock through the door. John smiled to himself and entered the door as well. He could easily tell the way Sherlock had gone by the startled people he left in his wake. After a moment of maneuvering through the halls he found the two men stationed in Lestrade's office waiting for him. Donovan and Anderson stood outside of the office and were both pale as ghosts. As John approached the two turned their gazes on him. He didn't answer their unasked questions and instead let himself into Lestrade's office, shutting the door quietly behind them.

"Looks like you've made quite an impression, huh, Sherlock? Though I'm sure that was your intent all along. Never could resist a good show." Lestrade intoned, amusement leaking into his words.

Sherlock didn't answer, just smiled and met gazes with John, his eyes twinkling in barely suppressed mirth. John returned the expression, some weight lifting off of his shoulders.

"The case, Lestrade?" Sherlock's voice took on a more professional tone as he turned to the older detective.

"We got the call this morning. I was just about to head over there when I thought to call you. I guess I'm going to pick up that habit again, aren't I?" He chuckled before resuming his story. "Body washed up along the banks of the Thames."

"Sounds ordinary enough. Suicide material. Why call me?" Sherlock wondered.

Lestrade nodded, "I wanted your opinion on something."

"Oh?"

"How do you jump into the Thames with no legs?"

* * *

The police car pulled up onto the banks with Sherlock and John in a cab following behind. John paid this time and instructed the cab to wait for them as Sherlock swooped down onto the scene. John lagged behind to wait for Lestrade. After giving off a couple of orders, Lestrade joined John and they made their way down to Sherlock.

"The Yard took that shock pretty well. You're rubbing off on them."

Lestrade smiled, "Guess it's a police thing."

"So this case, when you described it I thought you were joking."

"It's a strange one, I'll give you that." Lestrade said, nodding.

"Seems plenty strange for Sherlock." John commented.

Lestrade laughed quietly, his face grim. "I thought so."

"But you don't think it's odd for any reason other than the obvious fact?"

"No, why?" Lestrade's brows knitted together in curiosity.

"I just find it weird that Sherlock comes back and within two days a case pops up that's right up his street. There hasn't been anything like this the past three years, has there?"

"Not that I can think of. I'm sure it's just a coincidence, John." Lestrade said, brushing off John's speculation.

Even though Lestrade didn't think anything of it, John still couldn't help feeling unsettled. He'd have to bring it up with Sherlock later back at the flat. There was no such thing as coincidence with Sherlock involved.

The duo finally reached the immediate edge of the bank where a pale blue body lay sprawled on the ground next to Sherlock. John felt a rushing sense of familiar disgust at the sight of the mangled corpse. Like Lestrade had described, it looked like any other dead body John had ever seen, except for the fact that instead of legs, mangled stumps hung from the body's hips. John almost gagged at the sight. It looked like the limbs had been hacked off haphazardly, no evidence of a clean, straight cut anywhere in sight. Torn flesh hung around the wounds and although the blood had been staunched and most of it washed away in the river, the skin was a deep purple around the edges and stained with old blood.

Lestrade winced visibly next to him and even Anderson looked a little disturbed, despite being forensics.

"You might want to warn Donovan." Lestrade murmured to Anderson, his face pale.

"Yes, sir." Anderson responded without objection, casting a wary look at the corpse before turning to go.

John could see where Lestrade was coming from. Even with everything he had seen in the army, John wished he could have had a little warning himself.

Despite the horrible scene in front of them, John almost chuckled at Sherlock. The detective didn't look disturbed at all and was examining the body with a grim curiosity.

"Sherlock?" He called out.

The tall man looked up from his position on the ground. "Yes?"

"What've you got?"

Sherlock cocked his head and went back to his careful observations and cataloging all the details in his head. John took that as an invitation and walked over, Lestrade close at his heels.

When John kneeled down next to the body, Sherlock nodded his head in approval while John turned to Lestrade.

"By all means." Lestrade said, giving John the go-ahead.

John slipped into his doctor mode while Sherlock started rattling off what he'd learned to Lestrade.

"Obviously a murder, no man would cut off his own legs and throw himself into the Thames, even for suicide. I'd say he drowned except, John?" Sherlock turned to the doctor as John looked up.

"It seems he bled out before he was thrown into the river. So he was dead before his murderer decided to throw him in the Thames. But why the Thames? Why not just abandon him in an alley or something?"

"Good, John. You're thinking." John blushed at the praise and Sherlock went on. "Maybe something about our man will tell us why he was given special treatment." Sherlock's voice hinted at sarcasm as he stood and walked over to Lestrade.

"No identification on the body, however that isn't much of a problem. We could find out who he is easy enough. Male, early-thirties. His shirt is well tailored and expensive, as is what's left of his pants. That, along with the well-groomed haircut and price tag on his watch it's safe to assume he's a wealthy man. Despite the hue the river has given him you can still clearly see the tan on his skin, but not above the wrists and below the collar, so he's recently been somewhere and not tanning. Business, probably. Maybe a banker bringing into account his wealth. However he's built better than what a sedentary life will give you. So he most likely travels a lot and exercises regularly. Considering his relative youth he's still concerned with making appearances. Appearances for his clients or his wife, though? Or both?"

"Wife?" Lestrade asked.

"You can see the outline of his wedding ring on his finger but the ring itself is missing. Might've gotten washed off in the river except," He paused and dug in his pocket, pulling out a simple gold band. "I found it buttoned in the breast pocket of his shirt. So, recent divorce? If so, his wife probably left him and that's why he kept the ring on him. Close to his heart, as well. Sentiment. Mmm." Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode back over to the body. "Young, in love, got married on an impulse, probably. His wife was attracted to his wealth but not necessarily him. So why the divorce? Maybe he lost his money. Maybe he got mixed up with the wrong people…"

Sherlock stopped as his voice caught up with his inner thoughts. He ignored Lestrade and John as he continued to think in his head.

"Brilliant." John found himself muttering.

Lestrade smiled at him, "Just like old times, huh?"

"No kidding. It feels like no time's passed at all."

"You doing alright, then?" Lestrade asked, his tone relaying his concern.

"I'm fine." John said shortly.

Lestrade was about to speak again as Anderson and Donovan joined them. "This is bloody bizarre." Donovan muttered.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "You don't say? It's not everyday a man with no legs washes up on the banks of the Thames."

"Not that. Well, that is strange, but the Freak. He's alive."

"Oh, yeah." Lestrade shot a glance at John but the doctor didn't move, just stared stonily at the other two.

"I mean, I wonder how he did it. You said he jumped off of Barts, yeah? How could someone survive that?"

"He hasn't said."

"I thought he was a ghost at first." Anderson muttered, earning a snicker from Donovan.

"Yeah, well, he's not. He's alive and he's helping us solve this case." Lestrade snapped.

Donovan didn't seem to notice Lestrade's warning and annoyance as she spoke again, "Really, though. He may be a freak, but faking his own suicide, I have to admit that's clever." She turned to John, "You saw it, didn't you? Did it look fake?"

"Donovan." Lestrade gasped sharply.

John didn't move. Suddenly he couldn't see the three faces in front of him. They were blurred by a second frame of vision overlaying the other. But this one wasn't reality, it was a memory. A memory of a graceful silhouette falling from the sky like an angel cast out of heaven, coat billowing behind it like deep black, broken wings.

"John?" Lestrade's voice seemed to call from him from far away, urgent and worried. "John!"

The doctor didn't respond as a quiet whimper edged out of his throat. He swayed on his feet as a deep crack replayed over and over in his head, accompanying itself with the vision of a broken body splayed on the pavement.

John swayed again and Lestrade reached forward to catch him when two slim arms circled the doctor from behind. Lestrade stopped short, concern and surprise mixing on his face.

"I've got him." John could feel the deep vibration of the familiar baritone through his back and immediately knew who he was leaning against.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade's voice carried from far away as John's head fell limp against his chest.

"Yes." Sherlock kept his concern off of his face as he shifted so that John's arm was around his waist and helped the doctor over to the cab.

Lestrade followed and opened the door for Sherlock. The detective carefully slid John into the cab before piling in after him. "I'll call you tonight." Sherlock promised before shutting the door and telling the cabbie his address.

The cab zoomed off as Sherlock looked over at his friend who was sitting hunched in on himself, face in his hands.

"John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

The doctor looked up, eyes still slightly unfocused as a tear trailed down his cheek. "Sherlock?" He muttered, his voice hoarse and cracking.

"I'm here." Sherlock said, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"What happened?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, just swallowed and watched the doctor carefully. "We're on our way back to the flat."

"Oh, okay." John didn't speak then, just leaned against the door frame and stared at his hands in silence.

Sherlock didn't dare move his hand.

* * *

**A/N: Again, sorry about the delay, school really is horrible. **

**Thanks again for all the reviews, follows and favorites, I love every single one of them and your reviews really give me motivation to keep this story going, so thanks :)**

**I hope the deductions sounded enough like Sherlock, you'd tell me if they didn't, right? **

**-Elena**


	7. Finding Comfort in Unfamiliar Places

**A/N: Eek, I'm sorry, don't hate me. I realize it's been forever and I'm so sorry D: **

**I do not own Sherlock Holmes, though I'd probably be horrible at it if I did. **

* * *

There were three things that made John aware that he wasn't witnessing a suicide, but was in fact sitting on the aged and wrinkled couch in his flat. One, he kept seeing the same silhouette in two places at once. Both falling gracefully from the sky and buzzing around the flat, attempting to keep itself occupied while occasionally stealing glances at the comatose man on the couch. Two, the warm hand that eventually placed itself on John's shoulder while worried, icy-blue eyes stared intently into John's own blank gaze.

But the third one was really what broke John out of his reverie.

The familiar vibration seemed to shake the air as it formed into concerned words, "John? John, can you speak? Hell, make any noise at all. Just tell me you can still hear me."

Slowly, John blinked and reality came a little bit more into focus. "Sherlock?" He slurred, becoming conscious of the world around him.

Sherlock started, not expecting a reaction after hours of speaking to air. "Oh! Lestrade- Lestrade, I think he's coming around."

A head popped in from around the corner, followed by body that strode over to the pair on the couch. "Really? Hey, mate, you there?"

John squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, blinking a few times before the fuzz on the edge of his vision cleared and revealed two faces in front of him. Lestrade, his worry open on his face kneeled on John's right, his head cocked to one side. Sherlock sat as stoic as usual, but having known and lived with him for as long as he had, John could see the speck of relief and concern lurking in his friend's eyes. That alone sent John shooting upward, startling the two in front of him.

"What? Sherlock! What's going on?" He felt overwhelmed, eyebrows knitting in confusion.

Sherlock quirked his lips up in a small grimace and was going to answer when Lestrade shot him a look. The detective raised an eyebrow and gave a nod. Even though Sherlock might be John's best friend, he hadn't been there the past three years like Lestrade had. The DI was better handled to take care of something like this.

Lestrade turned to John, taking over, "You had a relapse. But you're okay now, right? Do you feel all right?"

John's head swam but he nodded, "Yeah, I think so. A relapse?" He frowned. "Oh."

Greg clenched his jaw and smacked John upside the head.

"Oi!" John squawked indignantly. "What was that for?"

"For giving me a bloody heart attack. These episodes stopped months ago. You can believe me when I say I was more than a little worried, John," Lestrade frowned and placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Do you feel okay? Any more dizziness?"

"I was okay until just now," John muttered with a frown, rubbing the back of his head. "Don't hurt the mentally scarred, doctor's orders."

Greg scoffed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, "Don't joke about that, John."

Sherlock had remained silent throughout the conversation, watching the two with a reserved expression. He was obviously aware that he had been gone from John's life for three years. But it hadn't really hit him until now how much he had missed.

Still massaging the back of his head, John turned to Sherlock, "Did you get anywhere with the case?"

For a moment the two looked confused and then Lestrade snorted, "Oh yeah, we caught the guy and everything. Didn't have anything better to do with our friend lying comatose on the couch. We also declared world peace and solved global warming."

"All right, all right, enough with the sarcasm, I get it. Jeez. Forgive me for worrying about a murderer on the loose." John rolled his eyes.

"You were half unconscious on the couch! We had other things on our minds."

"Okay, fine. I see your point. I just thought that Sherlock might be going stir-crazy with me being as boring as I was lying on the couch doing nothing." John grinned and looked over at the detective.

Sherlock was watching John with a slight smile on his face. An odd expression was carefully hidden in his eyes. It looked like a mixture of amusement and something else. Almost… pride, maybe? John furrowed his eyebrows. Sherlock was proud… of him? Why?

"Only a doctor would never want others to worry about them," Lestrade muttered, rolling his eyes and sitting back in his chair.

John snickered and then glanced at Sherlock again. He was still studying John but a deep frown had replaced the smile and John felt the shift in emotion almost like a temperature change.

He shivered and turned his head back to Lestrade, "Hey, Greg, could you give us a moment?"

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow and then raised his head, "Sure. I'll go tell Mrs. Hudson you're up. Stop her fretting." He smiled and left the room.

"I assume you told her you're alive?" John asked with a smile. Sherlock nodded curtly and John's smile spread into a grin, thinking about what the woman must have done to Sherlock once he revealed himself.

Then John remembered why he asked to see Sherlock alone. He sighed and turned back to Sherlock who was looking at him in confusion, "You wanted to speak to me?" He sounded like a small school boy nervous about being called up by a teacher. John had to fight down the ludicrous urge to giggle.

"What's up with the weird looks?"

"Pardon?"

John gave him a flat look, "You know what I'm talking about, Sherlock. You've been studying me ever since I woke up. What are you doing?"

"Well you have just been in a rather troublesome state. I was merely checking to see if you were okay."

The doctor sighed and rubbed his eyes, "Listen, Sherlock-"

Sherlock cocked his head and interrupted, "Is something bothering you, John?"

John frowned and moved his hand down his face, trying to find the right words. "The way you're looking at me. It's like… Like I'm one of your experiments you've encased in a glass jar. You look the exact same way when you're focusing on that one experiment because you're afraid you'll drop it and it'll shatter all over the floor."

The detective looked startled and a little guilty. A faint coloring rose in his cheeks, so light John thought he imagined it. "John-"

"No, Sherlock, I get it. I know exactly what you're doing."

The detective's forehead creased as he feigned innocence, "What am I doing?"

"Stop it. Sherlock… You don't have to treat me like a newborn rabbit. That's not who I am. Of course, this is hard for me, it's going to be hard. But I'm not a child, I can deal with it."

Sherlock's mouth opened and shut. He closed his eyes and then opened them again, "John… I-"

"You need to realize something, Sherlock. Stuff like this is going to happen. What I went through… Everything that happened these past three years isn't just going to disappear because we want it to. It was hard. The worse thing that happened to me since the war. But I don't blame you, okay? I know you had to do what you did and I understand."

Sherlock was silent for a long time after that. John just sat and watched him while trying to decipher the blank expression on his friend's face.

After what seemed like forever, Sherlock spoke. "You may not blame me, but I blame myself. I should have come up with something else. But I'm not going to sit here and make excuses for what I did. At the time… I honestly wasn't thinking. I was…"

John listened to the silence that followed Sherlock's words and filled in the last word. Worried, concerned, maybe even afraid.

"You're always thinking," John muttered.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, "That's true. But I was just thinking about the present. Getting you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade out of the firing line. I didn't realize what would happen when you left the battlefield. But I should have… I know your past. I know what you've been through in your life. I should have seen it coming."

"It's okay, Sherlock…"

"No, it's not," Sherlock said with a sad smile, "It's far from okay."

"Yeah…" John frowned and shifted on the couch, "It's going to take time, I'll admit that. All scars have a certain period of time they need to heal. I'm not just going to… It's not going to get better by itself."

"I will help," Sherlock said firmly.

John smiled, a little taken aback. "Thanks, Sherlock."

"Hey, you two. I know you're having a little heart to heart but Mrs. Hudson's smacking my arm right- _ow_- now and it kind of hurts, so if you could be so kind as to let her see John before she permenatly discolors my arm, it would help me out a lot." Lestrade's disembodied voice called from the doorway.

John smiled, "Sure, send her on in."

"Oh, John, dear, you're all right. I was so worried, we all were-" Mrs. Hudson bustled in the door, pushing past a still grumbling Lestrade and hurrying over to embrace John.

"It's okay, Mrs. Hudson. I'm fine." John reassured her with a smile.

"I just kept thinking about that one time… Oh, John. What if it had happened again?"

John grimaced, all too aware of what she was talking about, "Seriously, Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine. That won't happen again, I'm sure of it."

Sherlock looked confused, glancing back and forth between the three, "What time?"

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip, "Um, I'm going to go make some tea."

Sherlock was still waiting for an answer as the other two sat in an awkward silence. Finally Lestrade coughed and spoke, "It was something kind of like this except… worse. John didn't move for five days. He was barely eating. Finally we had to call Harry over because he wasn't recognizing any of our voices." Lestrade finished, his voice small.

John looked away, not wanting to see the openly guilt-stricken look on Sherlock's face. "I… did that?"

"Sherlock, it wasn't you're fault."

Setting his jaw, the detective stood and walked briskly out of the room, reaching his own room and slamming the door shut behind him. Lestrade and John winced at the noise, sharing a look.

"I should go talk to him," John murmured, starting to stand.

"No, don't. You know how he is. He doesn't want anyone to see him when he's like this. Let him work out his emotions by himself."

"I told him I didn't blame him."

Lestrade nodded, looking sympathetic, "I know. He just blames himself. Everything about this is going to take time."

John sighed. Lestrade was right, it wouldn't be easy and it would take a lot of time. John needed to heal and Sherlock needed to come to terms with himself and start to forgive himself. Even a part of John still didn't totally forgive Sherlock and that was going to take time as well.

A frown etched itself onto John's face as he stared at the hallway Sherlock had just disappeared down.

"It wasn't your fault. He's just being a moody git like always," Lestrade muttered, shrugging his shoulders.

Mrs. Hudson frowned in the kitchen and buised herself by making tea to sooth her guilty mind.

John watched her and then eased himself back onto the couch, letting Lestrade babble next to him. He wasn't really listening but kept his gaze fixed on the invisible point of Sherlock's door down the hall. Every word of what he had spoken had been true and Sherlock needed to know that. The Great Detective had a habit of looking over personal details and no matter how much he denied it, he knew little about John's emotions. The doctor had changed in the past three years, so much so that it would be as if the two friends were meeting all over again.

However, Sherlock had changed a fair amount as well.

But John didn't want to think about that.

What Sherlock had done in the past three years was his own business and until he told John himself, he wasn't going to pry. Really though, he couldn't help trying to decifer the cold look hidden in Sherlock's eyes the past couple of days. John recognized that look. It was all too familiar for him after having been in the army. What it was doing on his friend's face, John didn't want to think about.

* * *

_"Brother, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft's voice lacked its usual sneer. Instead, his brother sounded exhausted. Sherlock could empathize entirely._

_"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you keep it hidden?" Sherlock hissed, trying to keep his voice from prying ears in the living room. He stared at the poster on the wall behind his door, listing the elements from memory in his head as he waited for his brother's answer._

_A sigh escaped his brother's lips and traveled over the phone, mingling with the sharp noise of static. The interferance was a tell-tale sign of where Mycroft might be located at the moment, but Sherlock chose to ignore the mystery of his brother's whereabouts and focus on the task at hand._

_"What are you rambling about, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked._

_Sherlock rubbed his temple in annoyance, "You know exactly what I speak of, Mycroft. Now why didn't you tell me?"_

_"We've been over this. You had enough on your mind at the time, I just chose to leave out some details so you wouldn't worry yourself sick."_

_For a moment, Sherlock was flattered. Mycroft may be a royal pain in the arse at some times but he was still his brother, "I didn't know you cared, Mycroft."_

_"Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed, sounding ten years older._

_Sherlock shook himself and clenched the phone tighter, "But why, Mycroft? Why didn't you tell me that he was almost to the point of being hospitalized? That I- that I did something like-"_

_"It was not your fault, Sherlock," Mycroft stated firmly. Sherlock frowned, they kept telling him that but he knew otherwise. It was all his fault. "This was right after the time… When John…"_

_Mycroft trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to keep the image of John curled around a gun on the floor out of his mind._

_"I chose not to tell you because I didn't want you worrying more than you already were. Despite our bickering, I worry about your health, Sherlock, and what you might have done if you had known at the time."_

_Defeated, Sherlock sank back on his bedspread and peered at the ceiling. He knew his brother had his best interests at heart and what he did was the right thing. He also knew that Mycroft was right, if Sherlock had known there was no telling what he might have done._

_"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock finally whispered._

_There was a pause on the other end of the line. Mycroft didn't normally get thanks without a sarcastic underlining from his brother._

_After a moment Mycroft answered, "You are welcome, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock was about to hang up when Mycroft spoke again, "He'll be fine, Sherlock. Trust me. He just needs time."_

_The line went dead and Sherlock was left staring at the phone in his hands, knowing everything his brother had said was true._

_A quiet knock sounded from behind his head and Sherlock looked over, "Come in."_

_The door opened slowly and John stepped in. Sherlock immediately stood up and walked over, "John, what are you doing? You should be resting-"_

_John rolled his eyes, "Sherlock, I'm fine, I told you."_

_Sherlock swept his gaze over the man in front of him, assuring himself that what John said was correct. After a moment he sighed and looked back up at the doctor, "Is there something you wanted?" He asked and then winced, the question coming out more rude than he had intended._

_John smiled, knowing that Sherlock hadn't been trying to be mean, "Mrs. Hudson wanted to know if you wanted some tea. Also, Lestrade is waiting in the living room. I can tell he wants to talk about the case but he won't ask."_

_"Tea would be lovely," Sherlock said with a nod, "I'll be out in a minute, tell Lestrade I'm more than willing to share what I know."_

_The doctor grinned and closed the door behind him. Sherlock turned and walked over to his dresser. He pulled out his wallet and shoved it into his pocket. Unconciously, his gaze slid to the gun that had become familiar to him over the past three years. He could see the planes and grooves in his head even when he looked away, hear the sound of the shots when it wasn't even loaded, feel the power in his hands and the heat of the barrel. His eyes were drawn to it and his slid a finger over the hammer and down the rough grip almost like a caress._

_Shaking himself, he pulled his hand away from it like he had been burned and shut the drawer with a loud slam, turning from the dresser and rushing out of the room as quickly as he could._

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**A/N: Again, I am horribly sorry about the long wait. I wouldn't blame a mutiny :P It took me a while to get back into the swing of things with school and such, but I'm back now and I'll hopefully have another chapter up soon.**

**Thanks to all the reviews, follows and favorites that happened when I was gone, they all mean so much and finally forced me to get off my butt and write a new chapter. So thanks :)**

**I hoped you liked the chapter, I tried to make it a little longer than normal to make up for my absence. What do you think about Sherlock's behavior? Mmm?**

**-Elena**


	8. Painted in Grayscale

**A/N: I do not have the pleasure of owning Sherlock Holmes and Company**

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John sipped quietly on his tea as he watched the two men in front of him discuss the case. It didn't seem like he had missed much in the hours he had been unconscious; everything they were saying was somewhat familiar. Sherlock had his head propped up on his fingers as he stared off into space and rattled off what he knew. Every once in a while Sherlock would make some offhand comment and Lestrade would tell him to back up and explain it, causing Sherlock to become frustrated. Occasionally, he and Lestrade would begin argue over a small detail and Sherlock would explain as patiently as he could how implausible it was.

Overall, it was a particularly normal case discussion.

However, John could tell something was off with Sherlock. He was fidgeting more than normal and he looked like he was dying for a cigarette. John scowled. If Sherlock had picked up the habit again while he'd been gone…

Then he smiled. He had deduced something about Sherlock. That wasn't something that happened every day.

"What are you smiling about?" Lestrade's voice rang out from John's peripherals.

John turned his head to see the two of them looking at him in curiosity, "Oh, nothing." He chuckled and leaned back in his chair, balancing his tea on one of the arms and crossing his ankles. "Did you learn anything interesting from your bickering?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes while Sherlock just looked faintly amused. The two shared a look and then Lestrade addressed John, "According to Sherlock, the case wasn't that difficult-"

"I think I would do a better job explaining it, Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade scowled but waved his hand in front of him. John bit back a laugh as Sherlock started his explanation.

"Well I think it's safe to say that this was a job done by a hit man of some sort."

John nodded in agreement.

"The man, Daniel Stivers, was a banker, recently divorced and we concluded that the reason his wife left him was most likely because of his money, or lack of. So he lost his money, gambling probably, and he wasn't able to pay back whoever killed him. Taking into account Daniel's previous status and the severity of his death it had to have been concerning a considerable amount of money. Millions of pounds at a guess."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and fixed the wall with a calculating look, "So we know why he was killed. The question now is-" He turned to John and tilted his head, "Who killed him?"

"Did you rule out the wife?" John asked.

Sherlock cocked his head and after a moment he nodded, "She wouldn't have killed him. She was just in the marriage for the money and when that factor disappeared she left as well."

The three sat in silence as they thought. John and Lestrade watched Sherlock as he continued to sift through facts in his head. With a frown, John noticed that Sherlock was still fidgeting. What was bothering him?

Before he could ask, Sherlock shot up from his chair and paced across the room. He stopped by the door and turned to the other men, "Let's go look at the case files in your office, Lestrade. Something might turn up."

He swept out of the door and the other two were quick to follow. Knowing the dangers that often resulted from these sorts of excursions, John stopped by his desk on the way out and tucked his gun into the side of his jeans. He looked up to see the two men waiting for him by the door. Lestrade had propped himself against the frame as Sherlock stood stock still and stared intently at the grip of the gun peeking out from above John's pants. A myriad of emotions crossed Sherlock's normally stolid face and his hand clenched at his side.

"Sherlock?" John called out solicitously.

Lestrade turned, noticing his friend's hesitance for the first time, "You all right, mate?"

"Yeah… Yes of course I'm fine," Sherlock spat indignantly, but his voice shook and John's worry didn't lessen.

Resolving not to mention it, John bit his lip and creased his eyebrows but didn't say anything.

The three of them strode out of the room and down the stairs. Not bothering to hide himself this time, Sherlock boldly walked to the curb where Lestrade's car sat waiting. Lestrade climbed in the driver's side while Sherlock and John slid into the backseat.

The ride was quiet, punctured only by the slight murmurings of conversation from Lestrade. Otherwise, John sat in a slightly uncomfortable silence, pondering Sherlock's odd mood.

Sherlock hadn't made any sign that he'd noticed John's scrutiny. The detective sat in silence, running his thumb over his other fingers slowly, as if in deep thought. Just now, since John hadn't had much time to see before, he noticed the burns and scabs on Sherlock's fingers and hands. Of course, there was always some sort of injury on the detective's hands, taking into account all the experiments Sherlock performed, but some of them John knew for sure were new. And if he was being honest with himself, they looked like more than just accidental trophies from a wayward experiment.

John didn't want to ask Sherlock. He knew that even if he did Sherlock probably wouldn't answer with the honest truth. What he had done in the three years he kept himself away was his own business, and John wasn't going to question him until Sherlock was ready to tell John himself. Besides, Sherlock was Sherlock. He probably had a perfectly normal, or abnormal in the case of Sherlock, explanation as to the wounds on his hands.

After another tense period of time, the car pulled up to Scotland Yard. The trio exited the car and ascended the steps to the doors of the building. When they entered, the secretary still seemed shocked by Sherlock's state of living and didn't try to hide it, either.

John snickered quietly and Sherlock shot him a small, sideways smile.

"Feeling better, John?" Donovan called with a saccharine smile plastered on her face.

Another laugh almost escaped John's mouth as he thought about what Lestrade must have done to her and Anderson after they had left the crime scene.

"Oh, loads. Thanks, Sally," he replied casually. Honestly, he was finding her fake attitude extremely galling and would have preferred her normally snooty, aloof self more.

Sherlock glared at her and Anderson before sweeping into Lestrade's office with a huff. John rolled his eyes and bit back a smile, glad that Sherlock had chosen to remove himself from the situation instead of precipitating a fight like normal.

He followed Sherlock's coattails into the office with Lestrade bringing up the rear and closing the door behind them. Sherlock perched himself on the corner of Lestrade's desk while the DI rummaged through his drawers, searching for the file. John propped himself up against a chair arm and watched the two speak back and forth, just waiting to break up an argument.

"He was a banker," Sherlock interrupted Lestrade's latest guess.

The other two men looked over at him and Lestrade nodded in affirmation.

"Well, has his branch reported him missing?"

"Of course," Lestrade stated.

"When did they do that?" Sherlock continued.

Lestrade looked down at the file and then back up, "Two days ago. What are you on about, Sherlock?"

"Well," Sherlock started, shifting on his perch, "Did anyone report any disturbances two to three days ago? Anywhere this might have taken place? If he bled out before he drowned and there weren't any other cuts on the body, his legs must have been cut off while he still alive, either he was unconscious or… awake," John grimaced, "That would have made a lot of noise."

The two blanched at him and then John snapped his fingers, "Brilliant. If we can find the place he was brought to it might lead us to the people that took him. Why didn't we think of this before?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened his mouth but John scowled and held up a hand, "Don't answer that."

Sherlock closed his mouth and flashed a small, slightly guilty smile at John. Lestrade picked up the phone and started making calls to anyone he knew that could have heard something along the lines of what they were looking for.

John sat back on his chair arm and went back to studying Sherlock. Now that he had noticed the scars on his hands he also spotted cuts and bruises on his neck. Other than the wounds, Sherlock's hair was also cut shorter and his curls didn't hang in his eyes anymore. Upon further inspection, John took note of a small hole in the bottom of Sherlock's jacket. He pursed his lips and tried to fit these details together. Sherlock had been tracking down Moriarty's men. But he didn't say exactly what he did. How bad could it have been?

A loud crash startled John out of his thoughts and he looked up to see that Lestrade had thrown the phone back in its cradle and was looking at them in excitement.

"We've got a match. A janitor at a nearby office building called in three days ago saying he heard noises coming from an abandoned warehouse around midnight. He went to check it out and he said the lights were on but he didn't see anyone."

Sherlock snorted, "Of course it's an abandoned warehouse. What else would it be?"

John rolled his eyes, "Come on, you. Let's go check it out."

Lestrade picked up the paper he had scrawled the address upon and hurried out of the door with Sherlock following and John trailing dutifully behind him. They piled into Lestrade's car and started the drive to the warehouse.

When they finally pulled up to the building, John stared up at it and tried to imagine what Daniel had been thinking when he saw it. Did he know that he was going to be murdered? Did he suspect anything? With a shiver, John shook those thoughts away and clenched his hand. Now wasn't the time to get sentimental.

Instead of focusing on the man, John pictured the scene. The building was obviously abandoned. Even if you looked past the numerous broken windows and graffiti stained walls, the cracked sidewalk and bricks of the building were proof enough in themselves of the status of the building. However, such a dilapidated structure didn't look out of place in the area they were in. Mulitple buildings surrounded the one they were going to and they all looked the same. Foliage and weeds grew through the shattered windows, curling around the windowpanes like creeping fingers, poisoning the remanents of the building.

As they parked the car, John heard a sharp bird cry pierce through the air and a flock of crows took flight from a nearby dead tree. Sherlock watched the birds through the window with an emotion that John couldn't place flashing over his face so fast John thought he had imagined it ever being there at all.

"Come on, then," Lestrade said into the silence.

The three exited the car and approached the building with caution. John almost stumbled on a broken piece of sidewalk and as he swore Sherlock stopped suddenly and looked up at the building, shock sliding over his face.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again, shaking his head sharply as if trying to expel a train of thought, "This building… I thought the address was familiar but… I've been here before."

"What? When?" Lestrade questioned in a fierce murmur.

"A couple months ago," Sherlock muttered, staring up curiously at the building and then continuing his walk forward as if nothing had happened.

John shared a look with Lestrade and then hurried to catch up with the detective, "Sherlock! Wait!"

Sherlock swept into the room, opening the door which squeaked on rusty hinges and peering into the dark.

John followed behind him and looked around for a light switch of some sort. Then, remembering that Sherlock somehow knew this building, he called out to his companion, "Sherlock? Where are the lights?"

"Five feet to your left," Sherlock responded from somewhere in the dark.

John stood for a second, wondering how Sherlock could see him or anything else in the dark. Then he shook it off and went back to searching for the lights, this time going left.

After a moment his fingers touched a switch and he flipped it on to reveal Lestrade standing blindly in the middle of the room and Sherlock already on the other side of the warehouse, peering up at the broken staircase and then around for other places to climb. Other than multiple beams supporting the ceiling and the catwalk surrounding the upper floor, there wasn't anything in the room. Along the walls stood numerous doors that were as old as the one they had come through. Sliding his hand into his pocket, John joined Sherlock in the search and opened one of the doors to find an equally rusted metal staircase staring back at him.

"Sherlock!" he called. "I've found a staircase!"

The detective showed up in the doorway and looked up the stairs to the level beyond. After scrutinizing the area, Sherlock placed a tentative foot on the corroded metal and then pulled his whole weight onto it. He jumped a little in place and then ascended the staircase with John on his heels.

"What are we looking for? There's nothing upstairs but the catwalk," John wondered aloud. He hadn't been expecting Sherlock to reply and was surprised when he did.

"Precisely. If this is in fact the actual crime scene and there's nothing upstairs then it's only logical that the murder would have taken place on the ground floor."

John thought this over for a second, pausing in his ascent and then resuming his climb when Sherlock disappeared through the upper door. When he reached the top of the staircase he poked his head out of the door to see Sherlock peering at the ground below him. Brushing a spider web out of the way, John stood next to Sherlock and focused on him instead of the ground like his companion.

"Again. If the murder took place on the ground floor, what are we doing up here?" John sighed in exapseration.

Sherlock mirrored his sigh and turned to face John with a flat look, "We established that Mr. Stivers was murdered by some sort of hit man, yes?"

John nodded and opened his mouth but Sherlock cut him off.

"Even a hit man is smart enough to know not to leave traces of their work behind. They would have cleaned up after their mess. If they hadn't, there would be a blood stain on the floor. However, regardless of how well they might have cleaned the floor, this type of concrete is very porous. A blood stain as big as cutting off one's legs would provide would have left a permantent mark on the floor. That's what we're looking for," Sherlock finished and turned to continue his search of the floor.

John blinked and glanced between Sherlock and the floor, "Wow, um, yes okay. I see that." John immediately felt foolish. He was a doctor, why hadn't he thought of that? Maybe he could still redeem himself. "Well, I've seen a few big injuries like that in my time. Even we had places to put the patients if they were bleeding that badly. Wouldn't they have done the same?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, that's true. However, if the wounds are any indication, looking at how tattered the cuts were, I think it's safe to say that they were in a bit of a rush. They wouldn't have thought to put down towels or a tarp."

"Oh," John said.

He started prowling the parimeter of the catwalk, taking time to keep his hands from the more rusty and broken parts of the railing. He placed his feet carefully, trying to avoid the thinner parts of the catwalk. Sherlock walked parallel to him on the other side of the room; both stared down at the floor, searching for the fainest tinge of the dark red they were looking for.

John stepped on a particularly corroded piece of metal and it broke off and spiraled to the floor below him, sending out a resounding clash when it met the concrete. He jumped back and gripped the handrail, waiting until the metal settled. Lestrade glanced up at him from his area of the floor. He looked lost in the midst of the warehouse after choosing not to follow them up the staircase. When the metal hit the floor he called out to John, "You two okay?"

"Yes," John shouted back.

"Could you be any louder?" Sherlock muttered but his voice carried across the room and John scowled at him.

When Sherlock didn't look up, John rolled his eyes and continued along the path. He was almost to the corner when a gust of air caught his attention. Turning, he spotted a partially open door behind him. He lifted his hand and placed it against the muted cold of the metal, pushing the door open the rest of the way and peering inside.

A junction of the warehouse separated off into this separate room, connected by this door and an identical one below. This portion of the warehouse was half as big and darker than the rest of the building. Stepping inside, John turned to call out to Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock. There's another room back here. You want me to check it out?"

Sherlock had just reached the corner adjacent to John's and looked up when John addressed him. "A room? Yes, you'll want to look at that too."

John nodded and stepped the rest of the way through the door. The hinges squeaked horribly as the door swung back to its original position once John had let go of the door knob. He let his eyes adjust to the slightly dimmer room before continuing his trek around the railing.

The darkness of the room seemed to play with John's eyes. There were windows in here unlike the other room and beyond the windows lay numerous trees. The branches threw creeping shadows along the walls, casting dark blotches against the concrete that swayed in a dismal dance. He looked away from the distracting images and glued his eyes to the floor. Halfway down the walkway he spotted something slightly darker than the rest of the floor. Getting to his hands and knees, he stuck his head out between the bars of the railing and peered at the floor. Yes, there was defiantly a large, darker shade of grey pooled like a shadow itself on the floor. However, this one didn't move and John knew it was exactly what they were looking for.

Shooting up in excitement, John almost cracked his head against the metal pipe in his haste to get back to Sherlock. He rushed as quickly as he dared along the dangerous walkway and burst through the door, calling out as he did.

"Sherlock! Come look, I think I've found-" He cut off and staggered backwards at the image before him.

Sherlock was standing in front of the door they exited the stairway from. A low breeze traveled up from the staircase and blew around his legs, causing his coat to ripple against his calves. He stood against the barest edge of the walkway, a hairs bredth away from tipping over the low railing. Shot with a bout of vicious vertigo, John clenched the railing in front of him at the painfully familiar image. It was almost like he was standing below St. Barts again. His heart pounded in that same rhythm it had so long again. The palms of his hands started to sweat against the railing they grasped like a life line. Sherlock was teetering on the verge of life and death and John couldn't think for the life of him why his friend was choosing to torture him so again.

Then, his heart leaping in surprise, he noticed the man standing behind Sherlock. The deep black of the man's clothes and boots contrasted severely with his pale skin and long, dirty blond hair. His hair just barely brushed the shoulders of his fitted black jacket and one side was pushed back behind his ear to reveal a shimmering earring in the man's left lobe. Even from the distance he was standing at, John could see cool grey eyes staring daggers into the back of Sherlock's head, following the gun that was pointing to the exact same spot. The metal bit into Sherlock's skull and the slight discomfort at the feeling showed on his face. However, there wasn't any fear present in his eyes.

"I was hoping you'd find it, dear Doctor Watson. Gave me time to get aquainted with my old friend here," The man's gravelly voice traveled out to meet John over the expanse between them, and his quicksilver eyes snapped with mirth before shifting back to the hateful glare he was shooting into Sherlock's head.

John was still reeling from the image of the precarious perch Sherlock was in and he didn't fully register the situation until the resounding click of the hammer on the gun snapped across the room. He gaped at the man and then looked down at the sound of running footsteps. Lestrade had rushed up below them and now stared up at the scene with the same dumbstruck expression on his face that John assumed was present on his.

Finally, John shook himself enough to speak, "Who are you?"

The man laughed rough and low, traveling out of his mouth like a sharp cough, "I'm sorry. I assumed you knew." He raised his lips in a toothy grin that bordered on a snarl. "Sebastian Moran."

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**A/N: So what do you think? Mmm, Sebastian? **

**Reviews are appreciated and loved dearly :)**


	9. The Heart of a Soldier

**A/N: I do not own Sherlock Holmes and Company**

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"Moran?" John questioned, shifting his stance so that his hand hung next to his hip where his gun lay hidden.

Sebastian chuckled and cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, Moran. Is there a problem?"

John snorted and pulled out his gun, leveling his arm into an all-to-familiar stance. "Not at all."

Another laugh escaped the man's lips and Sebastian dug his gun harder into Sherlock's skull. "Oh, I see how this is going to go. Come on, Johnny, do we really have to make it this hard?"

"When you're gun is pointed at my friend's head, then yes, we do," John ground out through clenched teeth.

Sebastian shook his head and rolled his eyes. "So touchy."

John ignored him and turned his glance to the too calm eyes of Sherlock, "You all right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock grimaced and shook his head in exasperation. "Please try and be more observant some time, John."

"Fine, fine, no need to get like that," John muttered. His mind was slowly shifting away from memories of his past and starting to settle into an old routine. There was danger. He needed to stabilize it. He was trained for this.

Sebastian chuckled at their banter and turned his face so that he was addressing Sherlock. "I thought I'd give you a proper greeting, Sherlock. We've been dancing around each other for _ages_ now. I seems only fair that you get to see my face before I kill you."

"Enlighten me, then. How is it fair?" Sherlock replied calmly.

"Well," Sebastian started, "Because of my occupation as a sniper it is unusual for me to meet my targets. Congratulations."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded and John winced as his curls brushed against the gun barrel. "So I'm a special case?"

"Absolutely," Sebastian replied with a toothy grin.

Sherlock huffed, "Then how come I still can't see your face?"

Sebastian laughed gruffly. "I think this view will suffice. I'm sure you can understand I'm not used to the spotlight."

"Of course not."

There was a pause before Sherlock brushed off his coat and said, "Well, Sebastian. I'm really enjoying our civility and it was lovely to exchange pleasantries with you. But if you're going to kill me, I'd suggest you get it over with now."

"Oh, Sherlock, I'd love to but I don't think now's the time, is it?" Sebastian replied. "Of course I'm going to some day, but I told you I wanted to meet you first."

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, tapping his fingers on the railing in front of him. Finally, he nodded and looked up, meeting John's gaze head on. "Shoot him, John."

John gasped and blinked in shock. "Sherlock, what?"

"You heard me," he said calmly.

"But- Sherlock, if I pull the trigger then he will, too."

The detective leveled a blank look at John. "I know that. You need to trust me on this, John. Listen to me."

"Sherlock, I can't let you-" John stuttered, and yet his arm didn't move an inch.

"Trust me."

A pained look crossed John's face as he bit his lip. He wanted to trust Sherlock. God, did he want to. He was _Sherlock_ after all. His best friend. The one person he had decided to trust after everything he had been through. But he had lied to John for three years; and though he knew that Sherlock didn't have much of a choice in the matter, it was still something that John could never forget. Even so, even if he _did _trust Sherlock, he couldn't shoot Sebastian. If his finger even twitched on the trigger the sniper would send a bullet through Sherlock's skull. The image of Sherlock slumping over the railing and crashing to the concrete below was enough to send a wave of nausea crashing through John. He couldn't do it. He refused to.

"John, just do it. I want you to. Get rid of him. Don't worry about me," Sherlock said, his voice never wavering.

Still, that was all John had ever done; worrying about Sherlock was second nature to him.

John looked back and forth between the face he knew so well and the one that wanted to destroy it. He had two lives in his hands now. There had to be another way.

In the end, it all came down to how much loyalty John had to Sherlock. How much faithfulness, but also how much he cared for Sherlock. How unwilling John was to let him go again.

In the end, John was torn.

"Just do it, John!" Sherlock cried. His tone was forceful as he begged but he let no emotion leak onto his face.

From where John was standing, he couldn't see if there was anything in his friend's eyes. The one place where he would have been sure if Sherlock was being completely and utterly truthful about the situation.

John swallowed thickly but his hand still didn't shake or leave from its place, pointed at Sebastian's head. His heart beat erratically as he tried to make up his mind. Trust Sherlock or not. Go through with what Sherlock said or make a new plan. There was so much riding on a single twitch of the muscle in John's finger. He wasn't sure that even if he did decide to shoot that he could actually go through with it. Sherlock had complete faith in him, so why couldn't he reciprocate the effort?

"Who are you kidding, Sherlock? John wouldn't even dream of hurting you. Not even to kill the man that kept you from him for so long," Sebastian taunted.

Both Sherlock and John stiffened. Sebastian noticed and his silver tongue snapped quickly to comment.

"Oh, hit a nerve there, didn't I? Oh come on, John. You known you want to put a bullet through my head."

"'Course I do, but I don't want to put one in Sherlock's," John ground out through clenched teeth.

Sherlock snorted, "John, I told you not to-"

"Sherlock," John snapped, cutting him off. He took a deep breath through his nose and tried to see the situation as if he were on the battlefield. Immediately his mind cleared and he focused on what he knew. They weren't getting out of here today without a shot being fired. Sebastian wasn't about to let Sherlock go because he knew that if he did, John wouldn't hesitate to shoot him.

If only there were a way to get Sherlock to knock the gun out of Sebastian's hand. Of course, the detective wouldn't try anything, not with the combined weight of the two men dangerously close to breaking the walkway-

_Oh. _John hissed out a breath and straightened. The light from the day had already faded, making the only source of light in the dark room descend from the dim bulb in the ceiling. However, he could still see clearly enough in the remaining light to change his mark and zero in on his target.

"Sherlock?" he called.

Sherlock swallowed almost imperceptibly and stiffened. "Yes, John?"

John steadied his arm and called out a question he thought he already knew the answer to, "Do you trust me?"

"Of course," Sherlock said automatically. John was surprised at his immediate response but he brushed it off and focused.

John swallowed, he had one shot at this. Taking a deep breath, he barely raised his voice to call out, "Vatican cameos."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he launched himself out of the way. Sebastian, not expecting that course of action, was slow to react as the walkway swayed and rocked dangerously before pitching downwards. Sherlock clung to the railing as John pulled the trigger and his bullet hit its mark on a particularly rusted junction of the metal. The walkway screeched and crashed the rest of the way to the floor. Sebastian yelled as he plummeted with the metal. Sherlock gripped the small pipe that remained against the wall and shifted so that he could grip it with both hands.

A loud, meaty thump rang around the room as Sebastian's body hit the floor. He groaned as John quickly kneeled down on the metal and cocked his gun, pointing it at the man on the floor. Lestrade took the chance to point his own gun at Sebastian, now seeing that even if Sebastian still had his gun, Sherlock wasn't in any immediate danger.

"Sherlock!" John called out, not taking his eyes off the sniper's dazed body.

"I'm fine, John," the other man reassured him, straining to pull himself back up. The detective swung his legs, looking for purchase against the wall before both his feet hit the concrete and he walked up the wall, using his upper body to help haul his legs up onto the grating. He rolled onto the walkway and laid there for a moment, catching his breath and then hurrying to move to the doorway, out and away from the danger of the broken catwalk.

Sebastian gasped, catching his breath and then the gasps turned into hoarse snorts of laughter.

"Good, John. My, I didn't realize how clever you were." He continued to laugh, making John's blood boil.

Then Sebastian pulled out a hidden sidearm from the inside of his shirt. Lestrade hitched in a breath and steadied his firing arm but Sebastian was still stunned and didn't react.

"I think this was quite a productive meeting, wouldn't you agree?" Sebastian wheezed.

Sherlock scoffed from his perch above them but didn't say anything else.

"I think so." Sebastian answered his own question as he pondered the ceiling, scratching his head with his gun.

After a moment, Sebastian heaved himself into a sitting position, wincing and clutching his ribs. He smiled to himself and then up at Sherlock. "Do be careful, Sherlock. Don't think I haven't noticed how you've changed these years. I recognize the signs." He grinned. "You're playing with fire and you know what happens to those who play with fire."

Sherlock stared down at him, his face masked.

"They get burned," Sebastian finished, the words rolling off his tongue in a murmur.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but his hand twitched and brushed against his pocket automatically, as if looking for something that wasn't there.

"Well, I'm afraid I must be going," Sebastian apologized, standing and brushing himself off. Both John and Lestrade reacted instantly. Both arms steadied and raised. Both guns followed the sniper's chest.

Sebastian chuckled and met eyes with John and John alone.

With a wicked smile that bared his teeth, Sebastian spoke in no more than a growl, but John could hear every word as clear as day.

"Your nightmares aren't over, John. In fact, I believe they've only just begun."

Before anyone could react, Sebastian raised the arm of a trained marksman and without taking his eyes from John, he fired a single shot straight into the light bulb above.

Lestrade gasped and shielded his face as glass rained down on him. From under his arm he fired a shot into the dark, but John knew better than to waste his own shot at a blind target.

John heard a scrambling from across the room and knew Sherlock was rushing down the stairs at top speed, desperate to catch the sniper.

John stayed still, Sebastian's words echoing in his head. _Your nightmares aren't over…_ It sure sounded like a threat. But what would he do? And when?

Sherlock swore from inside the staircase as a slam indicated that Sebastian had gotten away. The detective reached the bottom of the stairs and released an angry half-shout from his throat.

"Sherlock, what just happened?" Lestrade asked to the dark.

Sherlock growled, "That was the man I've been tracking for three years slipping through my fingers yet again!"

Lestrade exhaled heavily and shifted, his feet scuffing against the concrete, "So what does this mean now?"

"Well, at least now we know who killed our victim. It's not Sebastian's usual style, but apparently he wanted to get my attention without throwing suspicion on himself," Sherlock explained. "It certainly worked," He muttered ruefully.

There was silence for a moment before Lestrade jumped, "Oh! John! John, are you okay?"

Sherlock started too and called out, "John? Are you still up there?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," John called back, wincing and almost swearing as his voice cracked on the last word.

"Be careful coming down. There's that empty space by the stairs now," Sherlock called, pretending not to have noticed John's shaky voice.

John stood on wobbly legs and crept blindly along the catwalk, trailing his hand along the wall. He turned at the corner and made sure not to go too far when he hit the doorway, else he fall to the floor below. When he reached the ground floor the rush of adrenalin crashed over him and he sagged against the wall, emotions in a turmoil inside his head.

Sherlock, growing concerned when he couldn't hear John's footsteps anymore called out, "John? You okay?"

John swallowed and steadied himself before responding, "Yeah, hold on. I'm coming."

He shook himself, chastising his weakness and made his way over to where Sherlock and Lestrade's voices had been coming from.

He bit back an oath as his foot connected with something hard and sent it skittering across the floor.

"What was that?" Lestrade questioned.

"I think it was Sebastian's gun," John said, rubbing his toe with his hand.

He finally reached the two detectives and, as a group, they exited into the night. The dark had arrived with a certain chill and John shivered as clouds covered the moon, promising a coming rain storm.

Now that they were in the faint light of the street lamps and stars, John could see the paleness of Lestrade's face and the way Sherlock kept rubbing his fingers against the back of his head without noticing.

When the pads of his fingers came away red, John strode over to him and stopped Sherlock from messing with it more by grabbing his arm.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly. "What are you doing?"

John rolled his eyes and dragged Sherlock over to the car. He sat Sherlock down on the seat before turning him around and running his fingers through Sherlock's curls to find the source of the bleeding. Finally, he found a cut along the nape of Sherlock's neck where the gun had bit deeply into the skin.

"I can clean this when we get back to Baker Street. It's not that deep. Just don't pick at it, Sherlock," John advised.

They stayed silent in the car. There were so many questions running through John's head that he felt dizzy, not to mention the amount of emotions that crashed over him so many times that he felt like a hormonal teenager again.

Finally, he got up the courage to speak, "Sherlock, what was the point of that?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock mused, too lost in his own thoughts to register that John had asked him a question.

John nudged him and asked again, "What was the point of Sebastian coming to meet you if he knew that we would all be there?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before explaining his thoughts, "I don't think Sebastian really thought through his plan. He may be clever, but he isn't a fraction as smart as his boss." He licked his lips and then went on. "I think he knew, or at least suspected that you two would be with me. He never intended to get shot and I think he knew that you wouldn't risk my life to get rid of him. It was a calculated gamble but Sebastian took that chance and ended up getting out alive."

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his eyes, "Really, he was just sizing up the situation. He meant what he said. He really just wanted to meet with me and…" He trailed off and looked calmly out of the window.

John creased his eyebrows. "What?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock said again.

John sighed and rolled his eyes. Sherlock knew, or at least suspected something, that he wasn't telling but John wasn't going to bother him about it.

Instead of speaking again, John watched Sherlock's face as he thought. The light from the street lamps they passed illuminated his features for a second before going dark and then lighting up again. The pattern repeated over and over as John thought.

He ran through every word Sebastian had said until he got to the part right before he shot out the light.

"_I recognize the signs." _

_"You're playing with fire."_

So John wasn't the only one who had noticed the almost imperceptible way Sherlock had changed. What had happened? Why was it that now whenever he looked at Sherlock he could see a ghost of himself in the days after the war on Sherlock's face?

Was that what Sherlock was thinking right now? John watched his friend as he unconsciously rubbed his fingers against his thigh and tilted his head.

Before he had a chance to speak up, Lestrade pulled up to their flat and parked. A light rain had started to drizzle down on London and the three of them hurried to the door where John unlocked it, stepped inside and shouted a greeting to Mrs. Hudson. The three made their way upstairs where John sat Sherlock down on the couch and went to get his medical kit.

When he returned, Sherlock and Lestrade were conversing quietly. John sat down next to Sherlock and tuned into their conversation as he opened his medical kit.

"So what now?" Lestrade asked. John pulled out a bottle of sterilizer and started to clean the cut.

Sherlock hissed at the sting and responded, "Now we wait."

"We just wait? Sherlock, that's not like you." Lestrade looked incredulously at the detective.

Sherlock shrugged, "There's nothing we can do. I've been tracking Sebastian for three years and haven't been able to get a lock on him. If he wants to be found, he'll be found. In the meantime, we can think up a plan for what to do if he _does_ want to be found."

John swallowed and crumpled the bloody tissue in his hand, dropping it onto the counter and starting to bandage the cut.

Lestrade sighed and leaned back in his chair, "I suppose there's no arguing about this?"

"Not at all," Sherlock said.

John closed his kit and stood to go put it back where it belong. When he returned, Lestrade got up to leave.

"Goodnight, you two," He said, shrugging into his jacket.

John smiled, "'Night, Greg."

Sherlock mumbled a goodbye from his perch on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

Lestrade waved and skipped down the stairs. He shut the door just as John collapsed into his chair. The doctor sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back and trying to calm his muscles into relaxing.

"Did you ever consider it?" Sherlock asked after a while.

John, who had been bordering on sleep, was startled into awaking, "What?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head towards John. "Did you ever consider shooting?"

John paused a moment, "Maybe, but I never wanted to. Don't tell me you actually didn't have another plan."

Sherlock shrugged, "I suspected that you wouldn't shoot but I didn't know if you would have actually thought of another plan."

"I would never have shot you," John said.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

John scoffed, "Because, _Sherlock_, you're my friend and killing you probably wouldn't be good for my mental health."

"But you wouldn't have physically killed me. You shooting Sebastian would have caused him to shoot me but you yourself wouldn't have actually shot me," Sherlock reasoned.

John shook his head, faintly amused. "You're so thick sometimes, Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock said defensively.

John turned fully towards Sherlock and propped his elbows on his knees, "Any way you put it, I would have been the one to cause your death. I couldn't do that, Sherlock. Ever. Under any circumstances."

"Why?"

The doctor groaned, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sherlock just continued to watch him. "Fine, you want me to say it? I care about you, Sherlock. You're my best friend and I don't want to lose you. Not when I could've stopped it. Not again. Not ever again."

Sherlock was silent as he studied John.

After a while of not saying anything, John sighed and got up, "I'm going to turn in. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"I haven't had many friends," Sherlock said quietly.

John turned to him and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean to put you through that. I just didn't realize what that would mean for you to make that choice and I'm sorry."

John swallowed, "S'okay, Sherlock."

John met gazes with the detective and didn't move for a long time. When he did, he said goodnight again and turned to go to his room.

He didn't fall asleep for a long time that night. The day had been packed full of events and his mind was still trying to sort through them all. However, he kept coming back to Sherlock's face as he lay on the sofa. His features had been open for once and what John saw was something he didn't know if he'd ever see again.

Sherlock cared. Probably more than he even knew himself. However, that brought up new problems. In Sherlock's mind, caring was a disadvantage. John just wondered how long it would take before Sherlock's heart was put to the test. And if it would be his downfall.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about the wait :( School again. And Halloween :) Did you have a good one?**

**I made this chapter a bit long 1) Because it just kind of played out that way and 2) Because I might not update for a while because of this competition I have next week that I need to prepare for.**

**Did you like Sebastian? In the course of writing him I kind of grew fond of him. **

**I'd love to hear from you on how I did, so review if you'd like :)**

**-Elena**


	10. Waiting for the Shadows to Recede

**A/N: I do not own the rights to Sherlock. If I did, the spaces between seasons would be even longer. **

* * *

In the weeks that passed John fell into an almost normal routine. If he wasn't really focusing on anything then it seemed to him that nothing was different. However, if he paused to think about it, all the memories of the past few weeks became all too real for him.

John had woken up and become startled to see Sherlock sitting calmly on the couch more times than he could count. Mrs. Hudson joked that he was going to give himself an aneurism if he kept jumping like he did every time he came down the stairs. In comparison, Sherlock seemed right at home back in 221B. With the case of the legless jumper more or less solved, Sherlock had fallen right back into the crime scene. Of course, they both were a bit opposed to this at first. Sherlock knew all too well that he had become too well-known back before the Fall and wasn't eager to gain back his status and jumpstart a repeat of the past proceedings. However, it can be said that it became hard for the both of them to ignore the pull of the rush of a case. They had suffered through three long years without the normalcy of what they had grown used to, and being presented with it again was almost like a rehabilitated drug addict being exposed to drugs again. Before long, they had been sucked in again.

Even so, Sherlock kept himself on the down-low with the help of John and Lestrade. Only a select few knew of his return and those that did were sworn to respect that Sherlock wanted to keep his privacy if only for a little longer. By now the whole of Scotland Yard, and a few doctors at St. Barts, were aware of Sherlock's miraculous 'Rise From the Dead'. This had come about as a result of the second case John and Sherlock had taken on when they visited St. Barts in search of Miss Molly Hooper. John had been more than a little angry to realize that Molly had known of Sherlock's plan all along.

When they entered the hospital, John had been fully prepared to confront a hysterical Molly at the sight of Sherlock not buried under a certain black headstone. However, when they entered the hospital, Molly had greeted them with a hello and a small smile.

Dumbstruck, John turned to Molly and opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "Wait, you- you knew?"

A faint blush of color rose on Molly's cheeks as she bit her lip and fumbled over her words. "Well, y-yes. Yes, I did. I kind of had to. I mean, I knew because I helped Sherlock kill himself. I mean, not kill himself, fake his death. Um-"

"Molly, do please be a dear and fetch the corpse before you confuse John any more than he already is," Sherlock piped up with his face stuck behind a microscope.

Molly flushed deeper and nodded, not trusting her mouth to respond and scurried out of the room with her head down.

John turned an accusing stare to Sherlock and pointed his finger at the door and then at the detective. "Why did _Molly_, no offense to the girl, but why did Molly, the flighty girl at the morgue that you never give the time of day to, know about your "death" and _I _didn't?"

John knew he was being more than a little selfish, but at the same time, he was, supposedly, Sherlock's only friend. Why couldn't he know?

Sherlock sighed and raised his eyes from the microscope. "That's exactly why John. I _don't_ give her the time of day. Because of that, Moriarty would have never suspected her. I couldn't tell you because you're the closest person to me while she is someone that floats around the edges of my life but wouldn't matter in the grand scheme of things in Moriarty's eyes. She wasn't a threat like you were."

John frowned. He knew what Sherlock was saying made sense. It was clever in a simple kind of way, but it still didn't quite take away the sting.

Overall, John slowly started to remember how it was before the Fall. The three years he had spent alone weren't gone, but they didn't rule his life anymore.

That is, he thought they didn't.

* * *

Sherlock reclined on the couch and groaned as his spine popped and his tense muscles relaxed. John kneeled next to him and held out his hand expectantly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and unfolded his arm from where it sat across his chest.

John tsked and took the arm gingerly in his hand, rolling back the cuff of Sherlock's mangled sleeve and turning it so that his pale forearm faced upwards. Or, would be pale, for now it was smeared with crusted and still leaking blood.

Sherlock hissed as John prodded the cut and removed a particularly large shard of glass.

The doctor sighed in exasperation and placed the glass on the coffee table where it hit a mug containing the last, cold dregs of tea from this morning with a resounding tinkling sound.

"What did you _do?_" John questioned as he pulled tweezers from the first-aid kit and started digging for hidden glass.

"I jumped through a window, in case you forgot, John. I assumed you would recall that, since you were right behind me."

"Yeah, but I didn't see you do _this_," John said, gesturing to the bleeding limb.

"Careful," Sherlock snapped and ground his teeth as John poked at a shard wedged in Sherlock's arm.

"You're lucky I had anything to numb this, anyway. I'm not supposed to have any on me but, knowing you, I thought it would be something useful to have." John wiped his bloodied hand on a towel and set down the tweezers next to the small pile of glass. "What did you do? Decide it might be fun to drag your arm across the broken windowsill?"

His tone conveyed annoyance but really, John was glad Sherlock hadn't injured himself further. The chase had been a dangerous one as it was. He, himself, had suffered from a cut lip and bruised knuckles, which, compared to Sherlock's injury, was nothing.

"I'm not exactly sure," Sherlock murmured, studying his bleeding forearm in reverence. John slapped his other hand away before his curious fingers could prod and aggravate the wound further. Sherlock pouted and scrutinized the wound from afar.

John sighed and started cleaning the wound. He wasn't all to worried about the cut; Sherlock had certainly suffered worse before, but he needed to clean and stitch it before it opened more or got infected.

He pulled away the red stained rag and started to stitch up the cut with small, even strokes that only a practiced hand could pull off. Sherlock turned his gaze to the ceiling and listened as John hummed to himself and finished stitching. Finally, John wrapped the detective's arm in bandage and went to dispose of the glass and wash his hands and equipment.

From the kitchen, John could hear the couch creak as Sherlock started to get up. He groaned and turned towards the detective in question.

"Don't," he warned, pointing the tweezers threateningly at the man on the couch.

Sherlock frowned but sank back down obediently on the couch, his injured arm lying out to the side.

John smiled innocently and turned back to the sink. When Sherlock got up once more, he rolled his eyes but didn't say anything. There was something about the way Sherlock ignored his medical instructions that was indescribably amusing.

"Hello?" Lestrade's voice called up the stairs about an hour later.

"We're home, Greg!" John shouted back. He heard the DI call out a greeting to Mrs. Hudson and then his light footsteps ascending the creaking stairs. Lestrade came through the door a moment later and smiled in greeting at the men in the flat.

Finally succumbing to John's warnings, Sherlock had returned to his spot on the couch after realizing that it was somewhat difficult to work with one useless, numb arm and suffering from blood loss. He was now reclining against his favorite pillow with his arm clutched gingerly to his chest and trying to regain color in his face.

John sat back comfortably in his chair and sipped on some tea, tapping away on his blog with one hand. When Lestrade entered, John shut his laptop and placed it on the table next to him, crossed one leg under the other one and balanced his mug on his knee.

Lestrade plopped down in a chair and ran a hand through his hair. He was about to speak when he caught sight of Sherlock.

"What'd he do?" He asked, pointing his thumb at the detective.

"Cut his arm jumping out of a window earlier today," John explained.

Lestrade's forehead creased. "Why'd he do that?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Because, _Lestrade_, I was chasing a criminal for one of_ your _cases." He looked pointedly at the DI.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Thank you, Sherlock," He intoned, causing John to stifle a snort into his tea.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the ceiling,satisfied, leaving the other two men to converse.

"So what's up, Lestrade?" John asked, ensconcing back into his chair.

"I actually came to ask you about the case, but I assume you have it taken care of." Lestrade nodded to Sherlock on the couch.

John nodded. "We talked to Dimmock earlier. He said you were busy."

Lestrade also nodded. "Meeting. Higher-ups wanted to know why our solved-cases quota suddenly skyrocketed."

Sherlock and John snorted at the same time and shared a look before bursting into a fit of giggles. Lestrade rolled his eyes at the pair of them and smiled.

"Well, how'd they take that?" John asked.

Lestrade grinned. "They didn't believe me at first. I had to show them the security footage of Sherlock prowling the Yard before they finally believed me. The Super nearly had a heart-attack."

This, of course, sent the group into another fit of laughter before they finally calmed themselves down.

"I would've loved to see that," John mused.

"I'm sure they'll want living proof, soon enough. Then you can be right on scene when one of them keels over."

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes, content with imagining it for the moment.

"Anyways, so you did get the case cleared up then? Who was it?"

"The nephew," John supplied before Sherlock could. "Sherlock found his fingerprints under the windowsill of the aunt's bedroom window where he placed his hands to pull himself inside," John explained. "He sure can pack a punch, too," He muttered, running his fingers over his scabbing lip.

Lestrade nodded. "Well, cheers. Seems like my force is getting less and less intelligent every day Sherlock's back."

"When were they ever intelligent?" Sherlock piped up from the couch.

"Shut it," Lestrade warned at the same time John said, "Sherlock, don't."

Sherlock chose to keep his mouth shut, which John was grateful for.

"Anything else?" John asked.

Lestrade started to shake his head and then frowned. He opened his mouth and then, thinking better of it, closed his mouth and bit the inside of his lip.

John looked curiously at him and even Sherlock lifted his head a bit to glance at the DI.

"Greg, what's up?" John prodded carefully.

"Well, I wasn't sure if I should bring it up." He licked his lips and then turned to Sherlock. "Have- Have you heard anything on Sebastian lately?"

The atmosphere in the room got noticeably colder at the mention of the sniper. Sherlock shifted so that he was sitting up straight and cleared his throat.

"No, nothing directly related to him."

"What about…" This is where Lestrade started to look uncomfortable. He shifted and glanced nervously between the two men. "What about… Moriarty?"

The two men froze and then John turned to stare at Sherlock. Then he trained his gaze back on Lestrade. "What do you mean?"

"James killed himself," Sherlock said slowly, watching Lestrade carefully. "I know. I had Mycroft's men retrieve his body."

Lestrade cleared his throat again and twitched his leg agitatedly, "I- I know that. But, besides Sebastian, what about Moriarty's other contacts? Other snipers? The people that wanted the computer code? What happened to them? You never explained."

Sherlock sat stock still and didn't dare move. John watched him cautiously, fighting off his own demons that Lestrade had unwittingly woken. He swallowed and bit his lip against the flood of memories the single name had spawned and tried to shake them away.

Lestrade, now realizing his mistake, looked into the faces of the two men in the world who could have gone their whole lives without ever hearing that name again and been fine. Now, having been exposed to it, both men were forced to deal with the memories. However, Sherlock was affected in a different way John was. Instead of being haunted by the past three years, Sherlock was relentlessly attacked by them.

"John? You okay, mate? Sherlock?" Lestrade tried.

John shook himself and looked up. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right."

The two looked over at Sherlock and John winced visibly. Sherlock stared down at his hands as the fingers on his right hand kept twitching towards his hip. Once again, John was reminded of his days after the war and didn't like seeing it on Sherlock at all.

Slowly, he got up and Lestrade followed his example. The two of them retreated to the kitchen were John started to speak in a low murmur.

"I don't think now is the best time to talk about it."

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked in a whisper, casting a worried glance at the detective.

John licked his lips and tried to stop his own hands and voice from shaking. He was pretty sure he knew exactly what was going on, but he didn't want to tell Lestrade yet just in case Sherlock was sensitive about it. "I'm not sure. I'll talk to him about it later tonight."

"Should I leave?" Lestrade asked, reaching out a hand and placing in on John's shoulder. John winced away from the touch and Lestrade recoiled quickly. John shot an apologetic look at him but Lestrade waved it away. "I shouldn't have brought it up. Especially not to you two. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. You can stay if you want…"

"No, I should go. I'm sure you'll be fine without me." Lestrade smiled kindly and John returned it.

Lestrade pulled on his jacket and called goodbye to Sherlock who didn't respond.

As soon as the door shut and Lestrade's footsteps faded away, John started to feel the after effects of his visit.

_Moriarty._

John shivered with discomfort and a bit of rage. He hated how just the mere mention of a name could set him off but there was nothing he could do now.

His fingernails bit into his palms as he slowly crept to the sitting room. Sherlock still sat in the same position on the couch, staring straight ahead and not looking up when John curled up in his chair.

"Sherlock?"

The detective hummed noncommittally and still didn't move. John chose not to try to peel back Sherlock's emotions and focused on reigning in his own.

He picked up his laptop and opened it again, attempting to keep typing about their latest case on his blog. However, after several uttered curses and deleted drafts, he couldn't seem to get it right. Anyway, his fingers were shaking too hard for him to type properly, so he gave up and slammed down his laptop on the table, digging his fingers into his temples and running them through his hair in exasperation.

Sherlock had migrated to the kitchen table at some point and looked up from his microscope at the noise of John's laptop hitting the wood.

"John?" Sherlock called out as the doctor stood and shook away the twinge in his leg. John noticed offhandedly that Sherlock seemed perfectly fine now. _His _hands weren't shaking. _His_ leg didn't clench painfully at the mere mention of a name. _His_ mind was attacked with a barrage of images whenever he saw St. Barts. And suddenly, John was angry, not just at himself and Moriarty and Sebastian, but at Sherlock too. Why wasn't Sherlock affected by the three years he'd been away? Why wasn't Sherlock having nightmares as John was? Why wasn't Sherlock having both mental and physical reactions to his past?

Why was John still haunted?

John didn't respond and ignored Sherlock's concerned look as he stomped out of the room and up the stairs to his own room. He quickly stripped down to his nightclothes and sat heavily on the bed, running his hands over his face as he did.

Why couldn't he recover? Why couldn't he move on?

Resolving to just fall asleep and hope he felt better in the morning, John sat back and sighed. He closed his eyes and rolled over, pulling the sheets up to his chin and clutching them to his chest. He tossed and turned for another hour before the sounds of Sherlock bustling around below him finally put him to sleep with a single question floating around in his mind.

Why couldn't he heal?

* * *

**A/N: Hello, um, don't you like how I put these at the end so you don't have to read them? :)**

**I don't really want to make up an excuse as to why this one took so long. Let's just say that my muse disappeared. (I was also sick and doing homework the other 30% of the time)**

**As always, thanks to everyone who followed, favorited and reviewed this story. It means so much that you actually took the time to do that considering you didn't have to. Plus the reviews always make my day when I get them. :) So if you like, you can review this one too. **

**-Elena**


	11. These Wounds Need Time

**A/N: I do not have the pleasure of owning Sherlock.**

* * *

John should have known, he should have realized, that he wasn't off the hook. Not by a long shot. If he imagined that the lull in nightmares was a good sign, then he must not have learned much in the past three years. It didn't mean that they disappeared, oh no, that would have been a mercy. If anything, the lack of nightly terrors was a horrible premonition of what was to come.

"You didn't think I'd _really _let you go, did you?" the voice taunted.

John swallowed and turned. Oh, he should have known. It should have been obvious that the arrival of Sebastian into the picture would earn him a new spot in John's dreams.

They were back in the warehouse, though this time John was on the ground and Sebastian sat above him, dangling his legs over the edge of the catwalk like a child on a playground set.

"Hello, John." Sebastian leaned into the railing and slung his arm around the bar so he wouldn't fall as he stooped forward to address the doctor. "Miss me?"

John chose not to answer. He wasn't about to give Sebastian the pleasure of riling him up.

"Come now, John. Don't be like that." Sebastian pouted but still John did not react.

Rolling his eyes, Sebastian swung his legs up so that they laid across the catwalk. He slumped against the railing, one arm dangling out over the edge of the catwalk and the other crossing his lap. "No one likes a spoilsport."

John turned away and stalked across the warehouse. When he reached the door he shook it and then, upon realizing it was locked, sighed and started pacing the warehouse. Sherlock must know he was missing; he'd arrive soon.

Sebastian seemed to realize he wasn't going to get a reaction out of John so he turned his head slightly to peer down at the doctor. "Why do you even _try _anymore? Why do you bother?"

Forgetting his feigned disinterest, John turned around curiously and asked, "Bother with what?"

Sebastian leered at him as John swore and turned around again. "Bother tagging along with Sherlock, of course. What, you think he's really interested in keeping you around? Please. If anything, you're just an experiment to him."

"I'm his friend," John spat defensively.

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends," Sebastian deadpanned, as if he'd said this statement many times before.

"Well, you're wrong there."

"Am I?" John twisted to see if Sebastian was mocking him, but the sniper had turned back to the wall and was pondering it with a curious expression painted on his face. "Am I wrong, John? Have you really convinced yourself that you are anything more than an idle plaything to the Great Sherlock Holmes?"

"He's told me himself," John responded, but his voice wavered with uncertainty.

Sebastian swung back around and pointed a finger at John. "Ah, see, there's your problem." He stood and started walking the length of the catwalk and gesticulating with his arms like a lecturer. "You might have convinced your heart, but your brain knows you are lying. You want to believe that you two are friends, but you just can't quite shake the feeling that you've been lying to yourself all along." He crossed his arms and shrugged. "It's that simple."

John shook his head resolutely. "No. No, you're wrong."

Sebastian stopped his pacing and leaned down over the railing, crossing his arms on the bar and propping his chin in his hands. "What's it going to take to convince you?"

"You won't. I know Sherlock better than you think."

The sniper chuckled lightly and shook his head sadly. "How about I tell you a story? Would you like that?"

"Don't speak to me like I'm a child," John growled.

Sebastian's eyebrows rose and he smiled widely. "Oh, feisty. All right, then, John. You want me to tell it like it is? Well I won't disappoint.

"I'm sure you know by now what Sherlock was doing that past three years. He was keeping you, Gregory Lestrade and dear Mrs. Hudson safe by tracking down and removing Moriarty's snipers, like me, from the equation. However, this proved to be harder than what he was anticipating. Of course, the first few, inexperienced ones were the easiest. But me, I was a challenge." Sebastian smiled widely."He got down to the last ones until I was the only one left. At this point, he must have realized that we were evenly matched. If he went back to you and enlisted you in the game again, I would have been outnumbered. Yet, he didn't go back to you, did he?"

"He did come back," John interrupted.

Sebastian scowled at him. "Yes, but not at first. No, he was having the most fun he had had in years. He was battling wits against wits, constantly fighting for survival. It was exhilarating. I mean, you must know the feeling."

John did. He knew all too well what that was like. To be in the middle of chaos and yet totally in control of what you were doing. Now he was starting to understand why Sherlock had been acting differently…

"If he was enjoying himself, why bring you into the picture? You would've weighed him down. He was better off without you. He's always been and always will be better off without you."

John shook his head. "No, that's not true."

Sebastian shrugged again and continued walking. He arrived at the staircase and descended quickly. When he reached the bottom, he emerged from the stairwell and watched John from the shadows, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his ankles.

"Can you really think of a reason he needs you?"

John opened his mouth, but then slowly closed it. He knew there was a reason, there really was one, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of it. But there had to be… It was on the tip of his tongue.

"Time's up. I think you failed, Johnny." Sebastian shook his head in mock sadness, then grinned impishly at John, his teeth and eyes shining from the shadows.

John shook his head, trying to clear the fogginess from his brain. Sebastian's words were sugarcoated, they made sense in an odd sort of way but not to John. And yet, John couldn't get rid of the unnerving, creeping feeling under his skin that unsettled him. Sebastian's words didn't sit right, but John couldn't help feeling almost convinced that what he was saying was true. But it couldn't be. It just couldn't. John knew Sherlock, this didn't sound like him at all.

Sebastian continued his trek towards John until he was standing only feet from where John stood, stock-still. That is, until John started shaking slightly.

The sniper pouted and cocked his head. "Do you still not believe? Well, I think I can change that."

He stepped forward again until he was right in front of John, then he leaned forward and whispered softly in his ear, "You're nothing to him, John. The more you convince yourself that you mean something to him, the more you're going to get hurt when he throws you away."

Sebastian stepped back and shrugged. "I'm just trying to warn you." Then he winked. "Don't dig yourself a hole. Get out while you can. Cut all ties and don't look back. That's always been my philosophy."

He turned and started walking away. When he reached the door he pulled a key out of his pocket and slid it into the lock, turning it and resting his hand on the handle. Then he paused and spoke without turning. "Don't get too attached, John. It's not worth it. You'll never mean the same to someone as they do to you."

Then he disappeared into the night, leaving John standing in the middle of the warehouse. Suddenly, he awoke in a cold sweat, clutching his blankets and feeling a cool, sinking sensation start to seep into his heart.

* * *

Unbeknownst to John, downstairs, Sherlock was having the same problem. After twisting his sheets around his body into an unrecognizable formation he had finally fallen asleep, only to end up getting the same amount of rest as he would have if he had stayed awake.

Like John, Sebastian starred in Sherlock's dream, though in a different way.

"What made you think that you could ever catch me?"

Besides the last echoes of Sebastian's voice, the only noise in the room was the quiet lapping of the water against the sides of the pool. The smell of chlorine was overpowering, but Sherlock tried to ignore it and stayed frozen. He was all too aware of the flickering red dot centered over his heart and knew not to move an inch, lest Sebastian decide to pull the trigger. His sidearm dangled by his hip, useless.

"You never even had a _chance," _the sniper taunted. "But we both knew that, didn't we?"

But still, Sherlock did not answer. His mind was working on overdrive, thinking up possibilities of how to get out of this situation. The only conclusion he could think of at the moment was to keep Sebastian talking. If he was talking, he was less likely to shoot. Though Sherlock wasn't riding on that. Sebastian could be unpredictable at best.

"And yet, I can't help but wonder if you were even trying. I thought you were better than this."

Sherlock bit his tongue and suppressed a wince, that stung a bit. If one thing was Sherlock's weakness, it was his pride.

"Were you trying, Sherlock?"

Finally, about to boil over, Sherlock spoke, "Do you really think I'd waste energy on someone like _you?_"

The sniper chuckled, causing the dot on Sherlock's chest to waver slightly. "You know I'm just pushing your buttons, Sherlock. Good to know which ones to tease, now."

Sherlock bit harder on his lip and cursed inwardly. He couldn't slip up like that. He was letting his annoyance get the better of him and he couldn't afford that.

"You're so easy to see through, Sherlock. Moriarty knew that. I know that. Hell, even John can see through you now. You're losing your touch."

"What does John have to do with this?" Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, Sherlock. This has everything to do with John."

Sherlock shook his head. "This is between you and me. John was just caught in the crossfire."

"One of the downsides to knowing you, huh? But you'll take what you can get." Sebastian clucked his tongue, the noise echoing through the small room and bouncing off the water.

The detective bristled but tried to ignore the bite. His eyes flickered over the multiple doors of the room and every once in a while shot up to look around the ceiling, trying to locate where Sebastian was situated.

"Does he know what you've done? Have you told him?"

"No," Sherlock said shortly.

Sebastian began tracing patterns with the dot on Sherlock's chest as he spoke, "I think you should. He would understand."

Sherlock scoffed, "So now you're giving me advice? I thought you were going to kill me. My mistake."

He could almost see the scowl on Sebastian's face as the dot flickered back up to rest, frozen, on Sherlock's chest. He frowned at the steadiness of the light but didn't pay any other attention to it as Sebastian spoke.

"I'm giving you advice, because otherwise you would never figure this out. You can be so thick sometimes, Sherlock. It's not that hard. You and John, you've both killed people. He's dealt with it, he's dealing with it right now. But you, Sherlock, you're not dealing with it. I don't think you even know where to begin. John does. Trust him, he trusts you."

"This isn't a question of trust, Sebastian. It's a question of whether or not I'm even suffering from what you're implying."

"Oh, you're suffering all right." The light disappeared from Sherlock's chest and moments later a quick, semi-loud noise shot through the room as Sebastian fired into the wall behind Sherlock.

Sherlock instantly dropped and knelt next to the wall, bringing his arm up and cocking the gun at the same time, pointing it to where he believed the shot to have come from.

He waited for another shot but it didn't come. Instead, Sebastian's voice echoed through the silence.

"Look at your hand, Sherlock."

Puzzled, Sherlock glanced at his arm, almost immediately seeing what Sebastian was referring to. Slowly, he lowered the gun, easing back the hammer as he did.

"I assume you saw it," Sebastian announced smugly.

"Of course I saw it," Sherlock snapped, lithely sliding back into a standing position.

"Then I think you should take my advice," the red dot suddenly appeared back on Sherlock's chest, "to heart."

Sherlock scoffed and glanced back up.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. Trust the man with the gun pointed at your chest."

"How could I ever trust you?" asked Sherlock.

The dot disappeared and Sebastian's voice, considerably quieter and farther away floated back to him. "Maybe you could figure that out too, while you're at it."

Sherlock stood for another moment, before taking a step backwards. His knees, stiff from standing so straight, unlocked and he staggered a bit before righting himself.

Slowly, he raised his arm again and glanced at his hand. Of course, it hadn't changed. His hand, which was still clutching his gun in a white-knuckled grip, wasn't shaking at all.

Sherlock awoke with a start, sitting up quickly and blinking around the room in confusion. Eventually, he relaxed and his heart rate slowed enough for him to slouch down and sigh. Knowing he would never get back to sleep, he stood and pulled his robe on over his clothes.

He exited the room and walked into the kitchen. However, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Sitting slouched on the sofa was John, staring blankly at the wall opposite him.

"John?" Sherlock question curiously, gliding over to the sitting room.

John jumped and wiped harshly at his face. Sherlock paused, taking note of the slight red tint of John's eyes and nose and the still-wet tracks running down his cheeks. The detective froze. A primal fight-or-flight instinct seemed to overwhelm him as he stood there. His usual reaction to situations like this was to take the flight option, choosing to stay away from the more-emotion situations. That was John's specialty. But this _was _John, and Sherlock could tell that this wasn't something that John would benefit from by just having himself as comfort.

"Oh, Sherlock, hey," John's voice wavered and he cleared it quickly, plastering a watery smile on his face. "Couldn't sleep either?"

Sherlock creased his eyebrows, "John, are you… all right?"

"'Course I am," John answered too-quickly.

Cautiously, Sherlock stepped forward and sat down on the couch next to John.

"No, you're not." Sherlock stated. He swallowed, picking through words in his head and aiming for something comforting. "Did you-" He cleared his throat. "Did you have a nightmare?"

John winced. _Yes_, he wanted to answer. He wanted to spill everything, but Sherlock wasn't the right person for that. Sherlock didn't do emotions.

Finally, knowing Sherlock would see through a lie, John decided to go with his first instinct. "Yes," He whispered. "I'm okay, though. Nothing worse than usual."

Sherlock frowned. "John, you don't have to hide anything from me."

John shook his head. "All right, you want me to spill? You first."

Sherlock glanced at him curiously. "What?"

"You've been hiding something, too. And now you're awake as well, looking none too better than what I'm sure I look like right now. So let's compare stories."

The detective sighed. Somehow, he knew it was going to come to this. "All right."

John blinked. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's time I told you. You deserve to know."

He sat back on the couch and began to tell the story, unaware of his clenched fists or John's attentive face.

"You know what I've been doing the past three years, tracking down Moriarty's men. It wasn't easy and it took weeks to even come close to some of them, but when I did… I had to do something. I tried to get most of them to Mycroft but… Sometimes it just didn't work out that way."

John kept his eyes on Sherlock's face. He knew not to move or startle the man, but he had the strangest urge to put his arm around his friend.

"Sometimes it was just a heat of the moment thing. Sometimes… I don't know, sometimes it wasn't." Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes. "I killed people, John. I know that doesn't mean much to someone like you, but…"

John opted to ease into his decision and place a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I understand, Sherlock. I understand completely. It's okay."

Sherlock shuddered. "Sometimes I can't help feeling that I did something _wrong_-"

"Were you in danger? Were they going to kill you?"

Sherlock turned to look at John, "At some point in time, probably, yes."

"Then it's fine, Sherlock. You killed people, but they were going to hurt you. Or one of us. I don't blame you for it," John consoled.

The detective sighed and slumped against the couch. John could see his features hardening again and knew he wasn't going to get any more out of Sherlock tonight. But they had taken a step in the right direction, and that was good for now.

"And you?" Sherlock finally said.

John jumped and then winced. "Sherlock, I-"

"John." Sherlock leveled a look at him. "I know something's not right when a soldier, especially one like you, cries."

John bit his lip and then nodded. "Yeah, it was another nightmare. It was… Sebastian this time." He sighed. "I know it's probably stupid, but he almost convinced me that…" He trailed off and looked away, feeling foolish. "He told me that I wasn't anything other than an experiment to you. That you didn't need me."

He winced at the way it came out. "I know that I'm your flat mate and I don't need to be anything other than that but I just-"

"John, it was a nightmare." John turned to face the detective and found Sherlock watching him curiously yet intensely. "I've told you before. You're my friend and that's not something I can say about just anyone. While I admit that you were just a flat mate at first, you aren't anymore, okay? Don't believe anything that man says. I do need you. You keep me human."

John nodded. "I know. It was stupid."

"The human mind is a devious thing, John. It likes to torture itself by pulling out your worst insecurities and fears and attacking you at your weakest. Just remember any nightmare you have is of your own making and that there's nothing to be afraid of."

The doctor smiled. "I think that's the most comforting thing you've ever said to me, in your own weird way, of course."

Sherlock chuckled, "I wouldn't grow to expect it." He placed a hand on John's shoulder and flashed a quick smile before standing and throwing a blanket at John. "Get some rest, you look exhausted."

"Shut up, my mind was being devious," John retorted.

Sherlock's laugh echoed back from the kitchen as John settled down on the couch and pulled the blanket up to his chin as he sank into the cushion. For the first time that whole night, John finally felt at peace and fell asleep to the familiar sound of his flat mate shuffling around the kitchen.

* * *

**A/N: Hello, dears :) Sorry about the late update (I've bet you've grown tired of my apologies by now, huh?) I jammed my finger again and couldn't type for a week :P It was completely blue and looked so cool.**

**Anyway, enough of my talk of bruising. Did you like the chapter? It kind of came out more angst-y than I first planned. Also, was Sherlock OOC at all by the end? Maybe it's just me.**

**All your reviews, follows and favorites were greatfully noted and loved for the last update. You are all such lovely people and your reviews are brilliant and encouraging :)**

**-Elena**


	12. Well Enough Alone

**A/N: I do not have the pleasure of owning Sherlock**

* * *

When John awoke for the second time, it was like nothing had happened between the two flat mates in the early hours of the morning. John fixed himself a cup of coffee and Sherlock fiddled away on his microscope. He assumed Sherlock had been in the same position ever since John had fallen back asleep earlier that morning.

For a while he just watched his flat mate work, leaning against the counter and sipping at his coffee. Sherlock's fingers worked over the different knobs on the machine with the quick precision of a surgeon. John had no doubt that Sherlock could have been a doctor of some sort if he had felt like it; however, he also knew that Sherlock at some point had wanted to a pirate, so he wasn't going to make any quick assumptions about Sherlock's career decisions.

The detective pulled away from the lens and John couldn't suppress the snort that erupted out of him at the sight of the slightly red ring around Sherlock's eye.

"What?" Sherlock asked defensively.

John just chuckled and shook his head, placing his mug in the sink and walking out of the kitchen, still laughing quietly to himself.

He plopped down on the couch and set to work trying to force his brain into thinking up a new entry for his blog. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find the words to describe what had transpired over the past weeks.

From Sherlock returning, to the man with missing legs, which led to Sebastian, John just couldn't articulate his thoughts into words. It didn't help that there were many personal things embedded into those experiences that he didn't want to talk about, let alone type into his blog.

This led him to think about his therapist, about how he had "forgotten" to speak to her about Sherlock's return, even though he pretty much knew that she was already aware of it. He resolved to call her. Just not now.

"John, could you assist me for a moment?" Sherlock called from the kitchen.

He immediately leapt up, glad to have an excuse to put down his laptop, and made his way over to the kitchen.

"What's up?" he asked, peering over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hold this," Sherlock said, handing John a vial of something smoking.

He eyed it warily, not liking the sickly shade of green the liquid was, nor that fact that it smelt like cat vomit crossed with sulfur. "What is this?"

"You probably don't want to know, or why it's in our kitchen," Sherlock said shortly, tapping the side of another vial, this one filled with something ruby-red colored, with his fingernail.

"I see," John said cautiously, holding it as far away from his body as possible.

"Just don't spill it. I'd rather not have to call the paramedics, and I _really_ don't want to answer Lestrade's questions at this time of the morning," Sherlock warned and John felt an unwilling smile creep up on his face.

"I assume you've done something like this before?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Do you really need to ask?"

"I suppose not," John murmured.

A knock on the door interrupted Sherlock's answer and he stood to get it, not trusting John to walk and not spill the thing he was holding.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised for once and John couldn't blame him. It couldn't be more than seven in the morning.

"Hullo, Sherlock. Good morning," Lestrade's voice wafted in from the other room.

"I would say so," Sherlock replied.

They made their way into the kitchen where John looked up and met gazes with Lestrade.

"Hey, Greg."

"'Morning, John. What's that?" he asked. Then he took a closer look and grimaced, "Sherlock, is that what I think it is?"

"Probably, but you can ignore it if you like."

Lestrade groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, "The things I put up with."

"You don't _have _to like it, Lestrade. You come to me because you need to."

"And if I didn't, where would you be?" Lestrade countered.

Sherlock closed his mouth and frowned. John chuckled and Lestrade smiled at him.

"So, what do you need, Greg?" John asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood and popped in to say hey."

Sherlock snorted and John sympathized completely. He shot Lestrade an apologetic grimace and said, "Would you blame me if I said I didn't believe that for a second?"

Lestrade sighed and rubbed at the short hairs on the nape of his neck with his knuckles. "I was actually wondering if you'd gotten anywhere with Moran, but I thought I'd soften the blow first."

The two flat mates stiffened and John's grimace deepened. "Oh."

"I haven't heard anything from Sebastian," Sherlock said.

Lestrade nodded and bit his lip. "Any leads?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "A couple, but nothing to firmly go on."

"I went back and visited that warehouse again," Lestrade started suddenly.

"Oh?" Sherlock looked vaguely interested.

"It's gone."

John's eyes widened and even Sherlock looked faintly surprised. "What?"

"Burned down. There was ash everywhere and some bits of metal but otherwise nothing. It's all gone."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, brow crinkling as his lips moved soundlessly. Finally, he spoke, "Why would he burn it? There was nothing there of importance."

"What about the blood?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, "It wasn't a critical piece of evidence. He could have easily gotten rid of that area of concrete if he really wanted to dispose of it. There was no point in getting rid of the entire building."

John opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock interrupted him by smacking the table with his hand, "No! What if there _was_ something there? He's trying to draw our attention to it. Call us back there? Maybe. There's something there he wants me to see. Something…" Sherlock hummed to himself, running his fingers through his curls. "I shouldn't go back there. There's nothing left. You said it yourself that everything was gone… I should just leave it alone…"

He tapped his fingers on the table and then stood. He grabbed the vial out of John's hand, placed it in a stand on the table and then dragged John and Lestrade out of the kitchen. "Grab your coats. We're going down there."

"What?" John stumbled into the couch, flustered. "I thought you just said we shouldn't go there."

"Changed my mind," Sherlock said shortly. He grabbed his scarf and wound it around his neck. "Come on! Grab your gun, John."

He ran out of the flat, leaving John and Lestrade standing dumbly in the middle of the room. They exchanged a look before John shrugged and hurried over to his desk where he grabbed his gun, made sure it was loaded and sprinted out after his flat mate. Lestrade followed, thundering down the stairs as they hurried to catch up to the detective. John found him at the side of the road waiting for them and watching the clouds gathering in the distance, clearling threatening rain.

John stood next to him. "What's the plan exactly?"

Sherlock shot him a sideways look. "Find whatever Sebastian left."

"What if he's, y'know, waiting for us?" John asked, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket.

Sherlock grinned out at the street. "Why do you think I told you to bring your gun?"

John smiled to himself and shoved his hands into his pockets as Lestrade joined them, digging his keys out of his own pockets.

They piled into Lestrade's car and he drove off down the street, heading towards the remnants of the warehouse. John tapped his fingers on his leg, staring out of the window at the passing scenery. It had always fascinated him how oblivious people could be. It was more noticeable now that he was with Sherlock. Whenever they were on a case he would watch the people on the sidewalks on in their cars, on the way to work or just taking a stroll down the street. None of them knew what was going on in John's life. None of them knew what kind of danger lurked in their city. In a weird, completely mad way, it made him feel sort of special that he _did _know.

Clouds began to roll in the farther they got from the flat. In the distance, John could see the faint flickering of lightning striking the horizon. The sky grew steadily darker until the first raindrops hit the car and rolled down the windows. John followed them with his eyes, watching as they joined together and grew big enough so that gravity could catch them, hauling them down the glass.

In all honesty, he wasn't sure what he was expecting to happen once they reached the warehouse. The person he was before he met Sherlock would've just assumed that nothing would be there but ashes and metal, trusting what Lestrade told them. Now, however, he trusted Sherlock, and if Sherlock thought that they might find Sebastian waiting for them, well, he was going to be ready whether anything came out of it or not.

The car rolled to a wet stop, tires kicking up mud and the already accumulating rain water as they pulled up to what was left of the warehouse. The trio slipped out of the car, standing in the mixture of mud and wet ash as John gawked at the scene before him.

Sure, he knew that Lestrade wouldn't have exaggerated, but he still wasn't quite prepared to see that the warehouse _was_ completely gone. In between two of the other buildings on this street, a gaping hole stood before them, like the gap between a young child's front teeth. The only signs that there ever was a building there were some scattered bricks and a metal girder lying in the mud. John took a tentative step forward and a piece of glass shattered underneath his shoe, startling the group. Sherlock shot him a sideways look as John winced and ducked his head sheepishly.

After another minute, Lestrade cleared his throat and said "Shall we get on with it, then?"

They advanced on the foundations of the building, Sherlock in the lead with the other two at his sides. John kept his fingers laced around the grip of his gun and ran his forefinger habitually along the trigger guard. He ran his other hand through his hair, peeling the wet strands off his forehead and blinking rain water out of his eyes.

The wind picked up as they stepped over the threshold of the building. The concrete beneath their feet was blackened and cracked, shattered in some places and littered with debris, ash and bits of the crumbling foundation. Sherlock nudged a piece of one of the remaining walls and it toppled over. The brick hit the concrete as lighting spiked through the sky, illuminating the clouds as thunder rippled through the air. John and Lestrade jumped as Sherlock just regarded the stone coolly.

"Sebastian does know how to tie up his loose ends," Sherlock murmured.

John could almost see the gears in Sherlock's head turning as he roved the area with his head pointing towards the ground. Occasionally he would look up and mouth something at the sky, his fingers twitching at his sides. Finally Lestrade made his way over to Sherlock and they stood together, looking at something on the opposite wall. John stood by the door, shifting in the cold and rain, but keeping his eyes on the detective.

"But if he went to this much work to destroy the building, what about-" Sherlock looked up, directing his question at John, but before he had the chance to finish, his eyes widened in shock and his hand extended towards his flat mate.

John didn't hear what Sherlock shouted, because something hit the back of his head and he was falling. He would have caught himself, but he was unconscious before he hit the ground.

* * *

Something wet, but warmer than rain, trickled down the back of John's neck. He groaned and shook his head, dislodging water droplets and scattering them wide. The movement also jarred his skull, causing a throbbing pain to shoot through his temple. He winced and squeezed his eyes tight, clenching his jaw.

Slowly, he eased his eyes opened and peered around. He tried to remember what had happened, but all he could recall was standing in the rain watching Sherlock and Lestrade across the remnants of the building…

_Sherlock and Lestrade._

John blinked and gasped, jerking up. He wasn't outside anymore, but in a building similar to the old warehouse. There were more windows in this building and he could see the rain lashing against them and leaking through cracks. The lack of natural light caused the only source of illumination in the building to be the dim bulbs in the ceiling, so John couldn't make out much of his surroundings. His legs and arms were tied to the chair he was sitting in, and when he moved, he could feel something warm brush against his hand. The graze of his fingers startled whatever was behind him and he heard someone gasp.

"John?" Lestrade's voice called out from the dark.

John coughed, the pounding in his head increasing as he moved. "Greg?" he responded, his voice coming out scratchy and dry.

"You're awake. Oh thank God." John felt Lestrade slump against his back, the chair the DI was tied to scraping against his fingers.

"'M fine." John resolutely ignored the throbbing headache plaguing him. "What about you? And where's Sherlock?"

"I'm okay. I think I've got a busted lip but that's about the worst thing." Lestrade swallowed. "I think Sherlock's okay. I haven't seen him since we arrived here."

John held back the sinking feeling in his gut and blinked again, his vision getting less fuzzy. "Where's 'here'?"

"Another building in this area. Sebastian and his lot dragged us here after he knocked you out. He took Sherlock into another room and had his men tie us up in this one. It's been around an hour. I was starting to get worried about you." Lestrade cleared his throat. "The guards left about ten minutes ago. Not sure what that means."

John chuckled. "Probably nothing good."

Lestrade laughed gruffly but paused as the door opened. Sherlock and Sebastian strolled in. It would have looked normal to anyone else, had John not been around Sherlock long enough to see the tenseness in his shoulders and the way his hands were fisted in his pockets.

When Sherlock noticed that John's eyes were opened, his own eyes sank slightly in relief but he didn't say anything. Of course, Sebastian did.

"Hello, Doctor Watson, so nice of you to join us. I'm sorry about the force used earlier, but it had to be done." Sebastian smiled at him.

John couldn't help feeling that Moriarty would have been less physical about it, but he wasn't too keen on going down that road at the moment.

"Sherlock and I here have just had ourselves a nice little chat concerning our previous engagement," Sebastian drawled, walking closer towards the bound pair.

"How lovely," Lestrade ground out, his voice barely concealing a snarl.

"Watch yourself, Detective Inspector, or I might have to give you the same treatment your doctor received," Sebastian murmured dangerously.

"Can we please save this for later," John snapped, growing tired of playing around. "Let's just get on with it. What do you want Sebastian?"

Sebastian leveled a clear look at John. "Only to finish what my late employer didn't. To break down Sherlock. Burn him." Sebastian kicked his foot out, scuffing up a cloud of dust. "I know the computer code doesn't exist, I was James' favorite sniper after all."

Sherlock snorted but Sebastian ignored him. "But it was never about that. Being around Jim was enough to make me loath Sherlock just as much as Jim respected him."

John raised an eyebrow. "Is this about jealousy, Moran?"

Sebastian raised his lips in a snarl. "Something as petty as jealousy? And I thought you were more intelligent than that John. No, this is all about Sherlock. He's dangerous."

"And you're all about ridding the world of danger, aren't you Moran?" Lestrade mused sarcastically.

"Of course not," Sebastian scoffed. "He's a danger to _my_ community, obviously. Jim was too blinded by games to see that Sherlock was rapidly diminishing my cliental and workforce. He put my friends behind bars or in the ground, and Jim didn't give a damn. He was all about the _Final Problem_. I tried to warn him that Sherlock would destroy our web, but Jim was too caught up in the strands, weaving them tighter and tighter till he choked himself. Now look where we are." Sebastian gestured around him. "It needs to stop. He-" He thrust a hand at Sherlock. "-needs to be stopped."

John and Lestrade gaped at Sebastian while Sherlock just clucked his tongue. "I didn't realize you cared so much, Sebastian."

Sebastian whirled on him. "It's going to end, Sherlock. Everything you've done is going to end. It's all going to come crashing down." He stalked forward until he was almost nose to nose with Sherlock.

"And it's going to end now. With you."

* * *

**A/N: Hi there, hope everyone had a good holiday. :)**

**I actually have some news, we're nearing the end of the story, only a couple more chapters left :( Thanks to everyone for your continued support, it really meant a lot for my first lengthy fanfaction.**

**Your reviews are lovely as always and I really enjoy reading them. I'd love to hear anything you have to say about Sebastian and the end of the story :)**

**-Elena**


	13. Once and For All

**A/N: I do not have the pleasure of owning Sherlock**

* * *

Upon Moran's announcement, the room fell into shocked silence. John blinked, turning to look at Sherlock. The dark haired man's gaze lingered on Moran, his eyes flickering to the gun at Moran's side and then back up to his face.

"You're insane," Lestrade hissed from behind John.

Moran chuckled darkly. "Hardly. I'm only doing what needs to be done."

"You'd kill anther man to save your own bloody skin?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

Sebastian's eyes flashed. "You're acting like he wouldn't do the same to me if given the chance!" He flung his arm out to point at Sherlock as lightning lit up the room and thunder cracked through the sky. "This man isn't a saint. He's killed people too. I'm trying to stop it all, don't you see?"

"There's a difference between you and him, though," John muttered.

The men in the room turned to look at him.

"I've killed too, but I was killing to save people I cared about. Sherlock was doing the same thing. He's not a killer, but he understood that sometimes you need to do something you don't want to for the good of other people. _You_ kill people because you want something, or because it's _fun_." John glared at him. "Don't you dare compare yourself to Sherlock to make your own selfish desires seem like an act of mercy."

Moran's nostrils flared. "So I'm just supposed to stand by and let my colleagues get slaughtered by him?"

"You're supposed to pick a better career, Moran. Preferably one that doesn't involve breaking the law. It's kind of late for that now, though," Lestrade responded.

"And you assume I'm going to 'come quietly'? Don't forget that you're sorely outnumbered, not to mention the fact that two of you are tied up at the moment," Moran sneered.

The room went silent, though Moran's grin seemed to speak for itself. They were outnumbered, and John wasn't sure he'd be much help anyhow with his head wound. He was dizzy enough as it was. John looked to Sherlock, hoping that the other man had some sort of plan, but his expression was closed off, so John had no way of knowing.

"Now we could keep going in circles all night, or I could get on with my plan." And just like that, Moran's cocky attitude was back, smile firmly in place.

"Come on, Sherlock," John growled under his breath. Lestrade knocked his knuckles against John's, indicating his thoughts were on the same path.

"What happened to killing from afar, Sebastian?" Sherlock said quietly, startling the room's occupants.

Moran's grin faltered but then slid back into place, "You're a special case, Sherlock. We've all come out of our element for you." His gaze moved to the two men tied in the center of the room and then back to Sherlock.

"Surely you're not comfortable with this though, are you? You like being behind the scenes, in control but not directly involved. You're strongest in the wings," Sherlock spoke smoothly, his words like honey.

"I'm strong with a gun in my hands, from on top of a building or in my target's face, whatever the situation calls for," Moran seethed, grinding the words between his teeth.

Sherlock chuckled, a smile touching his lips. "Do not lie to me, Sebastian. It will never work, you know that."

Moran took a step closer to Sherlock and John tensed. The room seemed to drop ten degrees as the tension between the two men froze the air. Unable to take being helpless anymore, John began fiddling with the ties on his and Lestrade's wrists. Lestrade bumped his shoulder against John's but John didn't respond, just kept tugging at the tight knots binding his hands together. As he shifted he felt a distinct emptiness at his hip and swore under his breath. Of course they would've taken his gun, but he had hoped that by some miracle they would have forgotten, then at least he would be armed. Without the reassuring weight against his skin he felt weaker, but he ignored it and continued rubbing his wrists raw as he struggled to get free. He could feel Lestrade trying to hold his hands as close together as possible so John could slip a finger between the rope and skin to get at the knots.

"It doesn't matter if I'm lying or not, Sherlock. What matters is that I'm standing here with a gun, intent on putting a bullet in your skull, and you have no way to stop me," Moran snarled.

John ignored the prickling feeling of unease at the back of his neck and finished picking apart the knot tying Lestrade's hands together. He caught the rope before it fell to the floor, exposing them, and stopped moving as Lestrade went to work on John's wrists. The men guarding them were too preoccupied to notice that their prisoners were escaping.

"I think what we should be looking at is if you can actually kill someone up close, Moran. Believe me, it's not the same thing," Sherlock said.

Moran laughed, "What are you, a therapist now? Of course it's the same thing. It doesn't matter where you kill someone, it's all the same."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not quite. When you kill someone from a building, do you watch them through your scope long after you've shot them? Or do you pack up immediately?"

"I pack up, obviously. I'm not stupid enough to get caught," Moran scoffed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "So you don't check to see if they are in fact dead?"

Moran's lips pulled up in a feral grin, "I never miss."

Another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky and was quickly followed by a loud boom of thunder. Lestrade's short nails scraped against the tough rope around John's wrists and finally the knot pulled free. John let out a small sigh of relief, rubbing his bruised and raw wrists. He coiled the rope in his hand and stuffed it behind his back in the chair. Neither of them dared move their hands more than that, lest they get caught.

"It's different when you're up close, though," Sherlock murmured. "You get to see them die. See the light leave their eyes, knowing that you _caused that_."

John looked up, recognizing that tone of voice. He could see the self-loathing in Sherlock's eyes and hoped the detective knew what he was doing.

Moran didn't say anything. If John looked closely, he thought he caught a little apprehension in the sniper's gaze.

"What does it matter?" Moran finally said. "I don't care whether I kill you from afar or you die with your blood on my hands." As he said it, though, John could hear the waver in his voice.

Judging from the triumphant look on Sherlock's face, John wasn't the only one who caught it. "I think you do care, Sebastian. You don't want to do this."

"Of course I do!" Moran exploded. "I want you in the ground, dumped in the Thames, your ashes scattered though the air, your head on a pike, your blood staining the streets. I want you _dead_ Sherlock," Moran spat, the malice in his words so thick it caused a shiver to roll down John's back.

A tense silence followed this outburst, only broken when Moran pulled his gun out and cocked it, pointing it at Sherlock's chest. John gasped, muscles tensing automatically as his mind went into danger mode. Lestrade pinched his wrist, warning him to wait.

"You're making a mistake, Moran," John settled for saying.

The two men turned to look at him, highlighted by a new streak of lightning. A muffled quake of thunder shook the building and the lights on the ceiling swung dangerously. Sherlock immediately noticed that the two weren't bound anymore, but other than a raised eyebrow, he didn't comment. His eyes, however, told John to be careful.

"Am I?" Moran answered, his tone mocking, as if speaking to a rebellious child.

"Even if you killed Sherlock, you still wouldn't be safe. There are others that would come for you and your friends, myself included," John promised, tone steely.

"What makes you think I'm letting you and the Detective Inspector go free after this is over? Oh no, you'll be facing the same treatment as Sherlock," Moran taunted.

"What makes you think you'll be able to stop us all?" John snapped, reusing Moran's own words to annoy him.

Evidently it worked, for Moran's eyes flashed and he gnashed his teeth together. He waved a hand and the two men at the door came forward and grabbed one of Sherlock's arms each. Sherlock groaned and shook his head in exasperation.

"No, no, so _forceful_," Sherlock sighed. "You'll never get anywhere this way."

"It's effective," Moran growled. "Alden, O'Connor, keep him still."

The sniper turned back to face Sherlock and approached him once more. "Any last words?" Moran hissed, shoving his gun into Sherlock's chest.

"You're kind enough to give me some?" Sherlock asked, and John had to admire his bravery. He could guarantee that he wouldn't taunt Moran if the gun was pointed at _his _chest.

"Why not?" Moran shrugged.

Sherlock tilted his head and finally said, "Try to lay off the clichés."

John took advantage of the moment and jumped out of his chair, Lestrade following suit. Sherlock dropped suddenly and his dead weight dragged his two captors down with him, giving him enough leeway to snake a leg around their knees, causing them to crash to the ground. He rolled out of the way, grabbing a gun from one of them as he did and coming to a stop on one knee. Meanwhile, John threw his shoulder into one of the two men at his and Lestrade's sides. The man grunted and staggered as Lestrade did the same to the other one. The two men struggled with their respective captors until John finally managed to land a solid blow to his attacker's face. The man stumbled backwards and John connected his foot with the man's stomach, sending him crashing to the ground. John wrestled the man's gun from his grasp and swung the butt of it at the man's temple as thunder cracked harshly through the air. The man slumped to the floor with a groan and lay there, unconscious. Lestrade finished up with his man and came to stand next to John. The two of them watched as Moran snarled and turned towards Sherlock.

"This isn't over, Sherlock," Moran snapped.

"I think it is, Sebastian. You're outnumbered now," Sherlock replied, leveling his gun at Moran's chest.

Moran shook his head stubbornly, his eyes darting around wildly, "I'm not leaving you here alive. You can't be allowed to live, Sherlock. You have to understand…"

Sherlock shook his head sadly. "It's over."

Moran shook his head even harder and cocked his gun again. The three men there immediately raised their own firearms in warning.

"I won't hesitate to shoot you, Moran," Lestrade warned.

Moran chuckled. "I don't care. You don't see, do you? None of you see." Moran's finger tensed on the trigger and Sherlock cocked his own gun.

"Put the gun down, Sebastian," Sherlock coaxed, but something in his tone caused John to shoot him a look.

John swallowed, not liking the dangerous glint in Sherlock's eye at all. He thought back to how obsessed Sherlock had been with tracking down the last piece of Moriarty's web, the most dangerous piece of all. And now here he was, ripe for the picking. He knew right then that Sherlock had no intention of letting Moran get out of here alive. He also knew that if Sherlock killed Moran, then he would get even worse than he was now, not better.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw one of the men on the ground stir. The man sat up and almost immediately jumped to his feet. John had no time to shout a warning before the man lunged at them. Moran used the distraction to fire off a shot. John thrust himself into Sherlock's side, knocking down the detective as he squeezed off an answering shot towards Moran at the same time Sherlock fired off his own. Sherlock's shot went wide but John saw his hit its mark as the man reached them. The man must have tried to hit him, but missed as John lunged, because he felt a stinging pain in his arm as he tumbled to the ground.

He looked up to see Moran staggering out of the door, a bloody hand held to his bleeding thigh. Lestrade was busy incapacitating the newly roused henchman and Sherlock was pinned under John so none of them could reach Moran. John tried to get up to run after him but he almost immediately fell over, his head spinning. Confused, he looked down and spotted a neat hole in his jacket arm, a hole that was quickly starting to become stained with blood. John gasped, drawing Sherlock and Lestrade's attention.

"John?" Sherlock questioned, struggling to his knees. "What's wrong?"

"I- um…" he choked out, pulling his hand away from his arm to reveal his red-stained palm.

Sherlock's eyes widened and Lestrade gasped, "_Jesus. _John-"

Sherlock, recovering from his shock, pulled a pocket knife out of his coat and cut the sleeve off John's jacket and shirt underneath, revealing the wound in full. The ragged edge of John's sleeve was slowly turning from white to a bright scarlet as blood slipped from the dark hole in John's upper arm. John couldn't help but notice how fast he was bleeding out and tried to figure out why. His medical knowledge came to him through his foggy head and he stuttered out, "Sh-Sherlock. B-brachial…"

Sherlock froze and paled before he shook his head and quickly fashioned pieces of John's jacket into a tourniquet while snapping to Lestrade, "Call an ambulance. _Now_, Greg."

Lestrade flipped open his phone and dialed quickly. After explaining the situation and giving the person on the other end an address, Lestrade joined him on the ground. "Sherlock, what did he say? Brac- what?"

"Brachial. As in the brachial artery. It's a main artery in your arm and if we don't stop the bleeding _quickly_, John will die." Sherlock shot Lestrade a dangerous look and continued to tie strips of cloth around John's arm.

Lestrade gaped at him and sat there on his heels, staring at John. John swallowed and blinked against the haziness at the edges of his vision.

When Sherlock had done all he could do he took John's face in his hands, smearing blood on John's jaw in the process and met his gaze firmly. "John _look at me_. Do not close your eyes, do you hear me? We're going to get you out of here and you are going to be fine. Just _do not_ close your eyes."

John tried to obey. His head was becoming lighter by the second, but even without Sherlock's warning, he knew not to close his eyes, else he not open them again.

When the familiar sound of sirens split through the air, John was struggling to keep his eyes open. The rain was slowing down but occasionally another bout of lightning split the sky and the resulting thunder shook the building. Sherlock and Lestrade took turns speaking to John to keep him awake and pacing the floor. Lestrade had rounded up the unconscious bodies on the ground and tied them up using the cord previously binding together his and John's hands.

Right before the paramedics rushed through the door, Sherlock kneeled in front of John and murmured, "Why did you push me out of the way?"

John coughed and spluttered, "Moran n-never m-misses."

Sherlock sat back, his eyebrows furrowing as he took in John's meaning. The doors of the warehouse burst open and three paramedics ran in. Two of them were holding a stretcher and the other grasped a medical kit in his hand. They hoisted John onto the stretcher and were just sticking the IV in his arm when he couldn't fight the haziness anymore and slipped into oblivion.

* * *

_Sherlock and Lestrade took Lestrade's car to the hospital, following closely behind the ambulance. It was quiet until Lestrade murmured, "Maybe you should call Mrs. Hudson. Let her know…"_

_Sherlock chose not to argue and fished his phone out of his pocket, quickly dialing the flat's phone. To be expected, Mrs. Hudson immediately panicked and overreacted, promising to meet them at the hospital as soon as she could._

_They reached St. Barts in record time and Lestrade parked haphazardly near the curb. The two exited the car and ran into the building just in time to see John's stretcher being wheeled into the ICU. They stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, until they realized they were getting concerned looks from the nurse at the check-in station and the other patients waiting in the lobby. Sherlock looked down at himself and realized he was covered in John's blood, as was Lestrade. Feeling a bit sick about how their friend's blood was on their skin, they went in search of a bathroom to wash up._

_Sherlock was coming down from his adrenaline high and was feeling particularly tired and useless after so much drama when his phone buzzed. He looked down at it curiously and saw a familiar number._

_"Mycroft," he said shortly._

_"Sherlock. What's this I hear about John being injured?" Mycroft's clear voice rang over the line._

_Sherlock couldn't help bristling at Mycroft's words and spat in reply, "He was shot."_

_Mycroft was quiet for a moment before he asked, "Will he recover?"_

_"He lost a lot of blood," Sherlock answered._

_"That can mean a lot of things, Sherlock. Specify," Mycroft said tonelessly._

_Sherlock clenched his teeth. "It means I don't know, _Mycroft_."_

_Mycroft sighed over the line. "Keep me posted." With that, he hung up._

_Sherlock closed his phone and rubbed his temple with his thumb. Lestrade shot him a questioning look but Sherlock didn't acknowledge it._

_With Lestrade's and Sherlock's connections, meaning that Lestrade was a DI and Sherlock knew most of the staff at St. Barts respectively, they found out about John's condition relatively quickly. He was out of surgery and resting, but they were on strict orders not to visit him until twenty-four hours had passed._

_They both found seats in the waiting room, saving one for Mrs. Hudson when she showed up, and waited. As the time ticked by, Lestrade nodded off, exhausted by the day's events, but Sherlock stayed awake, mulling over John's words in his mind._

_Moran never misses._

_Sherlock had an idea what John meant, but he couldn't be sure unless he asked the doctor himself. He promised himself he'd ask John if he woke up._

No. _Sherlock shook himself. _When_ he wakes up. _

* * *

**A/N: Hi :) ****So close to the end now, it's making me sad. I'll try and get the last chapter updated in the next week or two.**

**Thanks to everyone for the support like always! Review if you like, you know how much it makes my day :3**

**-Elena**


	14. Healing the Doctor

**A/N: I do not have the pleasure of owning Sherlock**

* * *

_"He's loosing too much blood. The bullet tore straight through the artery. We're really cutting it close."_

_"We'll make it. Hand me that IV, he's going to need it."_

_…_

_"I'm not leaving you here alive… You have to understand…"_

_"It's over."_

_"You don't see, do you? None of you see…"_

_…_

_"We're going to get you out of here and you are going to be fine. Just _do not_ close your eyes."_

_…_

_"Moran never misses."_

* * *

A horrible white light filtered through John's eyelids, pressuring him into awakening. For one terrifying moment he couldn't remember anything. The bed he lay in was unfamiliar and stiff, matching the starched blankets that covered his body. Everything seemed to be white and blank; an emotionless feeling settled over the room, giving him an uncomfortable urge to do _something_ to alleviate the bland, sterile atmosphere.

It was that sterile element that finally clued him in to where he was. He'd know that feeling anywhere, especially after being a doctor for so many years.

_A hospital. Of course, John. What are you, thick?_

His next thought was to figure out what could have woken him up. He could find out why he was in a hospital later. That part didn't really concern him. He did remember a vague feeling of pleasant content, though, and wondered what on earth could have possibly woken him from that. He gazed around the room and spotted a large window on the right wall. Dawn seemed to be just starting to appear, and the muted, albeit bright, hues shown strongly through the shades, landing right on his head, and therefore, his eyes.

John groaned and turned away, bringing up his hand to fist at his eyes. Despite just having woken he felt very lethargic, and vaguely wondered how long he had been asleep. The longer he thought on it, the more his head pounded, and eventually he just gave up thinking and decided to sit back.

Eventually, the doctor in him grew curious, and he started searching his body for any obvious sign as to why he'd been in a hospital. After being in the military and living with Sherlock for an extended period of time, he was no stranger to hospitals, but it was odd to have no recollection of why he was in one in the first place.

Before he even began his search, however, a stinging pain shot through his arm, drawing an involuntary gasp out of him.

_Well, I guess that answers that question._

Carefully, he shifted until he could pull down the blanket with his right arm, and twisted to see his left. His upper arm was heavily bound in gauze and held up with a sling. For a moment, he just stared at his arm, again wishing he could recall exactly what had happened. If he wanted to be honest with himself, it reminded him of the gunshot wound he took to his shoulder.

With that thought, he gasped, memories flowing through him as quickly as he could recall.

Sebastian, where was he? What had happened? Was Sherlock all right? Was Lestrade?

How long had he be unconscious?

The last thing he could remember was Lestrade assuring him that an ambulance was on its way and Sherlock's face looking unusually anxious. He groaned and closed his eyes. He wished someone was here with him so that they could tell him what the hell had happened.

Just as he was about to reach around for the call button, the sound of voices filtered through the doorway.

He strained his ears to make out the vaguely familiar sounding voices.

"I'm really just starting to worry. I've kept my faith in him, but almost two weeks is a long time to be unconscious from just a gunshot wound," Lestrade's muffled voice said from the hallway.

John's eyes widened. Two weeks? Lestrade was right, that was a long time.

"Do remember, Gregory, he lost a considerable amount of blood before he was able to undertake surgery. He is merely recovering."

If possible, John's eyes widened even further. What was Mycroft doing here? And where was Sherlock?

"I understand, but I'm still worried. We all are. Sherlock's composed three new songs in the past week alone, and even you have to admit that's a lot for him." John noted how tired Lestrade sounded.

Mycroft hummed. "It is unusual. Do not lose hope, Gregory. Weaker men than he have bounced back from worse wounds."

"I only hope you're right, Mycroft. If anything, for Sherlock's sake. If I didn't know him better I'd almost say he felt guilty."

Mycroft made another noncommittal noise and John had to wonder if maybe he thought Lestrade was right. "Sherlock has a fondness for John that I haven't seen in him since we were children. You might think it strange that he would feel guilty about putting his near-only friend in the hospital, but try looking at it from his point of view. Sherlock doesn't get close to anyone, and the one time he does? Giving a man someone they care about and then taking that person away from them is enough to tear down the strongest of men."

"Excuse me, gentlemen," a quiet, female voice interrupted the two men's conversation.

They made polite noises to indicate it was no bother and John heard them move out of her way.

A moment later, a nurse bustled in the door. When she saw he was awake she gasped, a startled expression flying over her face. Her hand fluttered to her heart. "Oh! Dear me, love, I wasn't expecting-"

"What's wrong, ma'am?" Lestrade's face appeared in the door. When he saw John he gasped even louder than the nurse. "John!"

"Greg." John's voice came out hoarser than he expected. He coughed. "Hey." A small smile appeared on his face.

Lestrade shook his head. "You dick, do you know how worried we've been?"

John chuckled, wincing a bit. "I can imagine." He looked between Lestrade's face and Mycroft's, who had appeared in the door as well. "Hello, Mycroft."

"Good morning, Doctor Watson. I'm glad to see you are well." Mycroft nodded to him. "If you don't mind, I'm going to go call my brother and inform him of your condition."

John's smile faltered a bit before he nodded. "Thank you."

Finally the nurse came forward and started checking the machines next to John's bed, making sure he hadn't jostled his IV when he awoke.

Lestrade crept forward into the room and collapsed into the chair at John's bedside.

"You look terrible," John commented.

Lestrade barked out a laugh. "Believe me, mate. You look worse."

John rolled his eyes and smiled. Then his smile faded. "So, how long was I out?" He really wanted to hear it straight on.

"Thirteen days." Lestrade dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his eyes. The dark circles under them had deepened to a mottled purple, which made it look like Lestrade had gotten off on the worse end of a fist fight. "It's been horrible. Mycroft's been hanging around for about a week and won't tell me why. Your sister has bombarded me with calls and texts, she seemed really torn up about it."

John winced. The memory of their fallout flashed through his mind.

"Mrs. Hudson won't stop making tea and Sherlock won't drink it. There's probably about two dozen cups of the stuff sitting around your flat right now getting cold and moldy. I bet you can imagine the number of experiments Sherlock has been doing since you were admitted. Without you there to watch over him it's like it was before he met you. I've become his babysitter again and with two new interns at Scotland Yard I've had enough on my plate, worrying about you, too, and-"

"Greg, you're babbling," John cut him off.

Lestrade grimaced. "Sorry, it's just been really hectic lately."

"I'm sorry," John apologized, sincerely meaning it.

Lestrade shook his head vehemently. "Don't you dare. No one is blaming you for this."

John shrugged, and then immediately regretted it when it jostled his arm. His wince caught the notice of both the nurse and Lestrade.

"Hold on, love. Let me just finish up here and then I'll get you something for the pain," the nurse said with a kind smile.

John nodded and turned back to Lestrade.

"Does it hurt?" the DI asked with concern.

John, seeing no use in lying and trying to avoid shrugging again, made a small noise in the back of his throat. "A bit, I guess. Nothing I haven't been through before."

Lestrade snorted. "No man should have to go through getting shot twice in their lifetime."

"Well I agree with you there." John chuckled and looked down at his hands. The calluses there were more than enough reminder of his time in the war. The gunshot wound and PTSD were just an added bonus, he thought bitterly.

It was silent in the room until the nurse swept out of the door with a promise to bring back some medication.

After a moment, John cleared his throat. "I have to say, I have more than a few questions."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow innocently. "About what?"

John clucked his tongue. "I think you know what. Sebastian, mainly. Did Sherlock find him?"

Lestrade sighed. He tapped the pads of his thumbs together and then looked back up. "I think I'll save that for Sherlock to explain."

John leaned back against the pillow. "All right. Thanks for that useful bit of information."

Lestrade shrugged. "I meant it. It'd be better if you found out from Sherlock."

"Found out what?" John asked curiously, lifting his head off of the pillow.

"The answer to your question," Lestrade responded.

John groaned. "You're so helpful."

Lestrade grinned slyly. "I try."

The room lapsed back into silence again. John listened to the dull sounds of the hospital that floated through the door, along with the sounds of the city waking up from his window.

_Two different worlds_, he thought to himself.

Eventually, Lestrade excused himself to get some coffee and find Mycroft. Alone again, John found himself thinking back to that day in the warehouse. Sebastian had seemed so… unhinged towards the end.

_Did you really expect anything different from a madman?_

Even as he thought it, though, John couldn't help but think that that wasn't true. Sure, Sebastian was a mass murderer. A sniper with unquestionable skill, and definitely not completely sane, but other than those aspects, was he really any different than Sherlock, Mycroft, or even John himself at times?

John shook his head. Of course he was. Sebastian was insane with jealousy and greed and drunk on power. Those things alone were enough to make anyone dangerous, and together? That was another story.

Still, John couldn't help but pity him. Moriarty had corrupted Sebastian, pulling him into his web and using him like anything else Moriarty touched. Sebastian just took his part too seriously and in the end, that was his mistake.

Just as he was again starting to get curious about what exactly had happened, Sherlock swept into the room, looking as calm as ever, and yet strangely disheveled. His eyes scanned the room and then settled on John. He relaxed visibly, as if he hadn't believed Mycroft on the phone and had to make sure John was awake on his own.

"John." The word came out as barely more than a whisper.

John swallowed. "Hey, Sherlock."

Sherlock breathed out heavily and then moved farther into the room, shutting the door behind him and coming to a stop at the foot of John's bed. John squirmed uncomfortably. He had always hated when people looked down on him, which really was a horrible thing for him considering his height.

As if he knew what John was thinking, and knowing Sherlock, he probably did, Sherlock moved over to the chair and sat down in it.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John nodded. "You?"

Sherlock scanned his face for a moment and chuckled quietly. "Yes, John. Of course I am all right. You are the one in the hospital, you know."

John shook his head and smiled. "Just checking. Shoot me for caring."

Almost immediately he regretted his word choice. Sherlock frowned, the smile slipping off of his face, leaving John with the sour taste of guilt in his mouth.

"Hey, don't do that. I'm fine, really."

"I could have gotten you killed." Sherlock swallowed and his eyes flickered to John's arm.

"I knew what I was getting myself into, Sherlock. It's no big deal."

Sherlock shook his head. "It is a big deal. You shouldn't have been in danger at all. I should have been more careful. If I had just-"

"_Sherlock_. You can't protect the whole world at the same time," John said, gritting his teeth.

"But I can protect _you_," Sherlock said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

The two stared each other down for a moment before John broke the silence. "I can take care of myself, you know. I'm not a child."

"I know you're not a child, John. You hardly let me forget it." A quick twitch at the corner of Sherlock's lips barely hinted at a smile. "But it shouldn't have had to come down to that."

"Sebastian is unpredictable. We had no way of knowing what he was going to do."

"_I _should have known," Sherlock hissed, clenching his jaw.

John pressed his lips together. He knew there was no use arguing with Sherlock when he was like this. Sighing, he settled for asking his questions.

"So what happened?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked up curiously.

"What happened with Moran? Did you catch him?"

"Moran is dead," Sherlock said flatly.

John couldn't stop the gasp that came out of his lips. He knew it was a possibility, but he didn't think…

"How?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I'd say it was his own stupidity that killed him, but I guess an argument could be made that you did, John," Sherlock said simply.

John blinked. "I- what?"

Sherlock sighed. "Don't worry. I've spoken about it with Lestrade and we've both agreed that there would be no point in going to court over it-"

"No, wait, Sherlock, how did I kill him? I've been unconscious for nearly two weeks!"

"And Sebastian died two weeks ago. The shot you fired as he shot you hit his femoral artery and, simply, he bled out. I can honestly say I don't know what went through his head, if he was suicidal or just an idiot, but he staggered into the Thames and drowned. With the heavy rains we had the next couple of days, the Thames became swollen and we couldn't find him for almost a week. A bit unfortunate on his part, I'd say." Sherlock shrugged.

John blinked. He could almost feel a circuit in his brain short out. "A bit… Sherlock. Unfortunate? This doesn't bother you?"

"Does it bother you?" Sherlock asked.

John swallowed. "Well, I dunno. I mean, I just killed a man. Well, not _just_, but you know what I mean. Um…"

"You have killed before," Sherlock stated.

"Yeah, I know. But, I mean. I just woke up from a minor coma to find out I've killed a man? Especially someone like Sebastian? I mean, wow. If anything, that's a wake up call."

Sherlock smiled wanly. "If anything, yes."

John shook his head, trying to clear it. "Wow, okay. Well, that clears up pretty much every question I had."

Sherlock chuckled quietly and nodded.

They were silent for a moment before Sherlock spoke up.

"I have a question for you."

John jumped, surprised. "A question? For me?"

"Yes, you." Sherlock smiled, then grew serious. "What did you mean, right before you fell unconscious?"

John stared at him blankly for a moment. When it became clear Sherlock wasn't going to elaborate any more than that, John shook his head. "You'll have to give me a bit more than that, Sherlock. I was a little more than light-headed at the time."

"'Moran never misses'," Sherlock recited quietly.

"Oh," John murmured. He chewed on his lip a bit before answering. "Well, you heard what he said. He never misses, and that gun was pointed right at your heart. Simply, I just couldn't let that happen."

"So you'd risk your own life to make sure he didn't take mine?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Well, sure. I've done it before. I'd thought I'd made it clear that I'd really like it if you weren't dead. I'd already lost you once before."

Sherlock grimaced and opened his mouth.

"Don't apologize for it again. I've already forgiven you, and we can just leave it at that." John surprised himself by realizing that he actually meant what he said. He did forgive Sherlock for what he had done. If he was being honest, he had forgiven the man a very long time ago.

Sherlock swallowed. "Thank you, John. Next time, though, realize that I'd also like it if you weren't dead."

John smiled, and the two left it at that.

* * *

Two months later saw the duo as they were always meant to be, arguing over experiments in the kitchen of their flat.

"I said _no_, Sherlock. For the last time, an entire cadaver is too big to fit in the fridge, and frankly, why do you even need one here, anyway? You know Molly would love it if you just lived in the morgue like you already almost do," John sighed, exasperated.

"It'd be so much easier if I just had one here, though. We'd save so much on cab fare," Sherlock countered.

John groaned and sank onto the couch. "Is this code for you asking me to call Lestrade and get you a case?"

Sherlock's head poked in from the kitchen. "Not necessarily, but if you aren't doing anything else, then that'd be lovely."

John snorted and fished his phone out of his pocket. His arm stung as he twisted it and he grimaced. Sherlock, still watching from the kitchen, noted this and walked farther into the sitting room. "Does it still hurt you?"

"Not as much as it used to," John replied, rubbing the affected area through the soft material of his sweater.

Sherlock cocked his head. "Maybe you shouldn't have stopped wearing the sling so soon."

John shook his head. "We've been over this already, Sherlock. I'm _fine._"

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you when you can't move that arm in thirty years."

"If I'm lucky, I won't find another body part in the fridge and have a heart attack before then."

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, I see. Now you're using code to tell me to stop with the body parts."

"I've been telling you that outright for months. If you've just picked up on that now, then we have a serious problem." John sighed and sat back on the couch, scrolling through his phone.

"It's an endearing quality of mine," Sherlock's voice floated back towards him as he walked back to the kitchen.

"You can say that again," John muttered, rubbing at his eyes.

"Hey, John?" Sherlock called, popping in back around the corner.

John noted the change of tone in his voice and looked up. "Yeah?"

Sherlock studied him curiously. "Are you still having nightmares?"

John blinked and pushed himself up so that he was sitting upright. "No, actually. I haven't for a while."

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, just scanned John's face. Just as John was about to speak again, Sherlock smiled and ducked back into the kitchen. "Good," he called back.

John watched the kitchen for a moment and then sighed to himself, a small smile playing on his lips. Only a few months ago, he wouldn't have thought it possible that this is what he'd be doing now.

However, now John realized he didn't belong any place else. Sure, he had needed to be healed in more than one sense of the word, and maybe there was a part of him that would never recover, but that was all right.

Some things never changed. And yet, living with Sherlock was so unpredictable. But that was just the way John liked it, and he wouldn't have had it any other way.

* * *

**A/N: If anyone asks, it took so long because I didn't want it to end. Shh...**

**Extensive and genuine thanks to everyone who encouraged me through this. All your reviews and favorites and follows meant the world to me. Especially since you put up with my crazy procrastination. **

**Also thanks to all of you that reviewed on almost every chapter, I really love you guys, you know who you are :)**

**Be on the look out for some one-shots I might get around to posting... Probably not Sherlock. I think I'll give this fandom a rest until season 3 comes out... **

**Feel free to share your thoughts on the end with me in the reviews, I'd love to know what you think. (I know I'm really rubbish at endings)**

**Cheers!**

**-Elena**


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